Debacle R
by dib07
Summary: All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he has always wanted. When his wish comes true, his dream doesn't quite play out as he imagined. Amazing cover art belongs to Weevmo!
1. What Remains

**Debacle (R)**** \- TBC?**

_**Summary: **_

_All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he always wanted. When his wish comes true however, it's not fame he gets, but guilt and regret. Defeating the villain is a little more complicated than that._

_Disclaimer Invader Zim belongs to JV_

_**Disclaimer:**_

_I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine. _

_**Warnings:**_

_Zim angst._

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**Dib07: **Sorry for the wait **VelociraptorLove**, but here is the sample I promised! I hope you like it! It's just a window into the story I have rewritten from the original Debacle way back when, and something I know you've been curious about! I hope it lives up to expectation! Thanks again for everything!

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Quick side note! thank you for all the support!

If you're new to my stories then I welcome you!

Please review, same as always, it might make new chapters appear faster!

This is from the old story **_Debacle_ **which I rewrote it awhile ago. You can read it as it is, and needs nothing else to accompany it. ^-^ It's kind of self-explanatory I guess? My brain just churns out nonsense, and this is the result! XD

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-x-

**Debacle R**

**\- What Remains -**

-x-

With a sharp creak of the accompanying hinge that winded to an unbearable pitch, he shunted the door open, the keys rattling like coins in one hand. He cursed every noise that was louder than a squeak. Even closing the fridge door had become too obscene for his ears and peace of mind. He knew he couldn't exactly tread around the house forever like... well...a mouse, but there didn't seem to be any easier alternatives.

He glanced behind him, almost failing to see the little green dog standing so closely at his heels. It was a wonder he hadn't trodden or fallen over him by now. In the grave silence the costume's little dog paws made obnoxious squeaks with every step. Dib gave the robot a tiresome look, hoping the noises would establish familiarity, and not fear.

He broke his stare to brush a leaf from his shoulder. "Gir, no wandering off. He's just this way." He reached up and flicked the light switch. The foyer seemed to morph into existence. The severe ticking of the grandfather clock sounded sharper somehow too in the quiet.

As his eyes swept towards the kitchen and the parlour, he was aware that nothing had changed. The discovery of the house and its furnishings being perfectly untouched disappointed him.

He plonked his keys on the side table in the foyer and removed his heavy coat. Gir was being unusually obedient to say the least. He stood by Dib's side and crossed his front paws together, gently swinging his upper torso this way and that while softly humming a childish tune.

"You can take off your doggie... costume... now." He said in case Gir hadn't realized it was safe to do so. Those mismatched doggie eyes held his for a moment, that absurd felt tongue pointing out of stitched lips – the goofy expression looking more ridiculous in the quiet.

The robot started to shrug off the costume as if it was an old layer of skin that he was only too happy to discard. After some squirming to shake it off, he skipped out of it smiling, those cyan eyes gleaming vibrantly. It least Gir's presence seemed to push back some of the gloom – an oppressive, heavy kind of gloom that was either in his mind or within the house.

Dib looked back towards the kitchen, wondering how the warmth of his own home had become so... cheerless. He figured that more light was needed, and after a quick march to activate every light switch there was, the ground floor was soon bathed in soft sunny yellow, but the cheer it brought still seemed cold.

"I'm a real boy." Gir uttered laconically, staying close and never straying more than five feet away. Dib raised an eyebrow. He'd given the order for him to stay close before he'd ferried Gir into the car. How was he still obeying an order he should have forgotten after the first ten seconds?

Those squeaking-paws had gone, though he hadn't yet decided if that was a good thing.

"This way, Gir." He didn't pause or look round to see if the tiny robot was following. When Dib placed a cool, clammy hand on the bottom banister rail, he looked up at the darkness beckoning from the top stair.

He did not relax even when Gir came and stood beside him.

_Make a noise as you go up. Nothing too scary though. He's gotta know it's me. _

"Zim?" He called without moving a step. He wasn't expecting a reply, but finding a less panicked space bug would be a nice bonus. "It's me. Dib. I've got Gir with me. I'm coming up the stairs." He didn't know what else to say or do but stand there, frozen. His lip was bleeding from the countless times he'd bitten into it without thinking.

_Just go up there. _

He dwelled on what he might find for a tiny micro second before shaking his head and clutching at his escaping resolve. Hand grasping the shiny wood of the banister rail, he took the stairs at a leisurely pace, emphasizing his footsteps as he went. Gir could not have understood the importance of the man's actions, but the robot continued humming that mindless tune as he followed, his cyan eyes cutting the darkness ahead in soft pastel greens and blues.

The silence and dark acted like a barrier that needed to be broken. He hit the landing light switch, and comforting honeyed light filled every niche and corner.

Everything was neat, tidy, and untouched, but he was beginning to smell the distinct and ugly smells of ammonia.

"Zim?" He approached the door, the door he had left slightly ajar after deliberating whether to leave it shut or to leave it open. The measure of door to doorway was exactly the same, he was sure, and this discovery was no relief.

He grasped the cool metal of the handle and pushed, wincing as the hinge gave a tremendous creak. He'd never noticed hinges squeak and creak so much before, and considered oiling every damn moving part a door had – but then – the silences of his entrances would be way worse.

"Zim?" He reached up, hunting blindly a moment before he found it, and clicked it.

Light suffused this room with gentle gold. His eyes flickered about the room as fast as lightning. He didn't have to look very far. A little figure was hunched against the far corner of the room, head cowed against the scratched wallpaper. He had his PAK to them. From this distance he could see those little shoulders shivering.

Though he had sadly expected as much, the little offerings he had left out were untouched. The carton of milk could not have been easier to find, a straw propped and ready in its cardboard corner mere feet away. Zim only had to reach out a little to feel it. And the food he surely must have smelt. Who wouldn't say no to chocolate with a side dish of oatmeal? But the oatmeal had gone thick and cold, and the lumps of chocolate that had once been in the dish were now randomly scattered across the carpet. Zim must have lashed out, hitting the bowl, or he had accidently blundered into it.

The tiny basket bed had been tipped over, the blankets crumpling haphazardly over and under it.

"Zim? Hey, it's just me. I've brought Gir along to see you."

The little figure barely reacted from his hunched station in the corner. His tattered antennae went up, and a wet growl sounded from the invader's damaged throat.

Dib knelt down and pushed the robot forwards. Gir needed no other incentive. He walked with that metal tip-tap across the carpet.

The human stood by the doorway feeling inept and powerless. His fists persistently clenched and unclenched at his sides, his jaw tightening. There was little else he could do, and keeping his distance was painful. Gir, his chassis shining in the golden glow of the room, tip-tapped his way over without the hesitation Dib had shown. "Hey yous!" His voice was overly shrill and piercing in the cold stillness.

Dib hissed, helplessly wincing when Gir got within two feet of him. He hadn't been able to get that close. Not when he was awake anyway.

"Master? What you doin'?"

Zim blindly looked around; arms huddled across his remaining knee. His blank eyes were wide but teary. The purple robe that Dib had managed to put on him when he had been unconscious slipped down one shoulder to reveal the ugly bands and reams of lacerations beneath. The robe had once belonged to his sister before she had grown out of it, and it still looked two sizes too big on something so little and gaunt.

His mouth moved soundlessly, pale face turning towards the light as he reluctantly went to move, only to tuck his dented PAK into the corner. The static colour in his eyes remained. Tears glistened wetly from his cheeks. The stink of urine seemed to fill the room, underlining the despair Dib could feel as much as sense.

"Master?" Gir asked, stepping closer.

Zim flinched, not expecting the suddenness of the voice, or its proximity.

"Why are you hiding?" Gir bent down slightly and cocked his head; barely a foot away from his master. His cyan glow bathed Zim's dark, searching eyes in bluish green.

The Irken fetched in heavier breaths, blinking rapidly. Those spindly arms began to loosen around his robed knee and a shaky clawed hand dangling with strips of gauze started to timorously stretch forwards. When he was centimetres away from touching his child, he hesitated, as if he'd become too afraid to discover if Gir might be a hallucination. Dib lowered hands he had unconsciously raised to his chest and was about to step forwards when Gir leaned closer, his metal shoulder pad connecting with Zim's claws. His vacant and empty features slowly but surely creased and additional tears spilled from vacant orbs. His lips moved, and a noise gurgled from his bruised throat. Patiently Gir stood, warmly smiling. Both hands trailing gauze reached out, and he began feeling Gir's face and features. A weak tug of a smile emerged from the edge of Zim's lips.

Dib watched, frozen to the spot, too afraid to move in case he might break the spell.

Would this reunion be enough to break Zim out of his shell?

He caught the Irken's lips moving as they formed silent words. _'It's really you.'_

But he kept himself huddled in the corner as if he still believed or was convinced to believe that he was confined to that tiny box they kept him before and after each tormenting session. Dib still wrestled with the pain of the experience. They had driven the Irken's soul into a tiny dark corner, and there, in his mind, he remained.

"Gir," Dib called from the boundary of the doorway, "get him to drink from that milk carton." _And please don't take it for yourself_. He could already picture the robot loudly gulping down the now-warm milk.

Despite how quiet and affable his voice was from a distance, Zim flinched, eyes piously squinting for the source. Those tiny nasal slits flared a few times to catch Dib's scent, and a couple of times his eyes _almost_ landed in the human's direction.

"Okie dokie." Gir moved out of Zim's touch, which caused the Irken to desperately look for him, claws clenching on thin air.

"Geerr?" He gurgled, throat convulsively swallowing. The barbs of pain down there had him crouching with watery coughs.

Gir meandered to the milk carton and picked it up, that same laconic smile plastered on his face. He then saw the littering of chocolate pieces and began scooping them up one by one into the other hand to then lick and smack on them.

"Gir!" Dib pleaded, "The milk carton! Please?"

Zim was turning his sightless eyes this way and that, tracking every sound with desperate intensity, both claws braced defensively across his chest as if he could wall himself off from the world. For all he knew the room was laced with traps, pitfalls and mines that were waiting for him should he move from the corner. When Dib took a step, the waft in the air, or his scent triggered Zim's antennae to twitch, and dark glassy eyes turned his way.

"It's okay." The human whispered, coming again to a standstill. "I'm not going to hurt you, anymore. You're safe now."

The Irken's upper lip parted to reveal teeth, but a greater fear remained in his pinched face and shivery exterior. The robe parted at his chest, the fleecy volume of the robe's size heaped and dishevelled on so tiny and lithe a frame. Though Dib had put the heating on full-blast, keeping the windows shut and the curtains drawn to lock in warmth, the Irken would not quit shivering. Better clothing would be ideal; heck a hot drink would be ideal if Zim would let him get close, but the Irken would hold his guard until he was so exhausted he'd drop to sleep sitting up, chin resting on his collarbone, arms loose and easy on his lap or at his sides. And each time the Irken woke, whether it would be hours later or even minutes, he'd cry or shriek from torn vocals – frightening Dib to death. Perhaps he thought he was still trapped inside his own nightmares conjured by his trauma, or maybe he expected to still feel the box pressing tightly from all sides.

At least the gauze on the stump that remained of his knee was holding up. It had soiled in the middle, as Dib half expected it might, and he really wanted to change it.

Every now and then a fly would buzz over the Irken and it would either land on the soiled stump of what remained of his leg or it would rest on Zim's shiny skull, and Dib had the overwhelming urge to shoo it off when Zim did not seem to notice or care that it was crawling over him.

He took another step and watched Zim react by pulling back, blinking in owlish terror, lips stretched taut to reveal a grim line of teeth. Hs posture didn't soften when Gir tinkered on over, swishing the carton in one metallic hand. "I gots you yours drinkie! Want some?"

Attention torn, Zim snapped a vague look his way, then in Dib's general direction. Gir stepped closer, shaking the carton. Too close. Zim struck out, emitting a croaky cry and the carton went flying.

He bowed towards the wall as if seeking a way through it, claws clasping his shoulders.

Dib had foolishly believed that once he had got rid of the stench from the Facility, be it Zim's science-issued gown, even the clothing Dib wore on that day when he got him out, the Irken would naturally settle to a degree. He had to remember that Zim had been restrained without relief, never knowing what was going to happen next, or where he'd be taken to. They'd shoved and jammed things into his organs and cervix, brutalising the sanctity of his body: with Zim never knowing what part of him they were going to ravage next, and where the next blow would come from.

The milk from the straw dripped onto the carpet. Zim's ragged antennae had snapped down, his face hidden behind arms that were once again locked over his one knee. Restraining him just long enough to stick a sedative into a vein seemed to be the only solution. Gir was the other option in a bid to soften Zim's lethal distress.

Judging his distance carefully, Dib walked forwards three steps until he was standing by the end of the bedpost. Several times he had got this close, and closer, only for Zim to start slashing frantically and aimlessly at the air in front of him, careless of his wounds and deeper injuries. They hurt. He knew they hurt by the way Zim kept wincing and mewling and crying, a claw sometimes clutching at a particular hurt.

Gir picked up the carton in a remarkable effort to try again. Though there was less milk inside, he carried it over; presenting it happily, his cyan glow warming the Irken's shivering form.

"Yur..." the voice was groggy – unrecognizable – "nut...r-real..."

Gir paused, taking a moment to pat his chassis. "Nope! I'm all Gir!" He said, cuddling himself in delight.

Huddled to the wall, he gurgled: "Geer. Take..." It took more swallowing to get the decipherable words out, "...me h-home..."

Gir looked to Dib.

Dib looked back, mouth opening soundlessly when he could think of nothing to say. He held a perfect picture in his head of Zim sitting, huddled on the floor of his base, waiting for the same finality only death could bring.

"Isn't Mary's house fun?" Gir asked in that heightened, painful pitch of his. Zim winced, eyes falling shut.

"Nut...r-real..." He croakily whispered.

"Gir is real." Dib said, trying not to react or hesitate when Zim instinctively recoiled at the sound of his voice. "I'm real. This room you're in is safe. You're in my room, no one else is here. There are no more men in white coats. No one is going to hurt you. I got you out, Zim. It's okay now."

_Keep talking to him_. His inner voice urged. _He needs to know where I am. He can't handle any surprises or sudden movements._

A few more steps he conquered, making his approach obvious and unstealthy.

Zim looked up with that same vague but wary stare, murky eyes narrowing. "No..." The demand was weak, tiny, and Dib had to ignore the faintest authority it carried. If he allowed Zim to wallow in this corner, then he would do so until he died.

His approach was slow, deliberate, and like a cornered beast sniffing the hunter, Zim tensed, shoulders braced against the wall, his left hand lifting threateningly. Gir was humming. That was good.

_Keep singing or doing whatever you're doing Gir._

"No...!" Zim commanded, voice weedy and empty of its former depth.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help you." _Like I should have done before._

Even though the human's voice was calm and steady, Zim sidled along the wall even though it caused him pain. Dib came within three feet. He knelt down, watching the Irken scramble and shuffle along the wall. At least he had managed to persuade him out of that corner: a corner now riddled with claw marks.

_Please listen to me, Zim. I don't want to sedate you. _

"Master?" Gir asked, watching the Irken bump into a wardrobe that stood against the wall. The journey from corner to wardrobe had been a marathon for the Irken. Zim sat, heaving for breath, sweat running down his skinny chest and arms. He could still _feel_ Dib's closeness, and he blindly went to move away again, reaching for anything that might help him forwards. A hand, impossibly light, touched his shoulder and he shrieked, the noise bursting out of his damaged throat.

"Easy, Zim. I'm not your enemy." He inwardly recoiled when he said this. But he found that he had to remove his hand. The touch elicited those claws as they weakly and vengefully slashed for him. Dib always had more than enough time to avoid the blow, and he doubted they'd do any real damage.

He didn't know what else to do. He had left the alien alone, hoping this would ease his stress, giving him that peace and quiet so that he could find and eat the food in his own time.

The PAK's mantle had been barbarically closed back together with nails and screws, forcing it shut because they had failed to understand how it opened or closed. This was the general behaviour of man: when they didn't understand something, they forced out its secrets under their will, their command, without care or prudence. After all, they believed that their alien subject possessed no soul, so what did it matter?

When he'd watched Zim behind the thick layer of glass, he knew he shouldn't have been such a spineless coward. In the end, he was just another accomplice: part of the malice that had landed the Irken amongst torture and cruelty.

_He came to kill us all._

_He invaded our world. _

_He knew the risks. That it could end this way._

_I did the right thing. I believed I did the right thing._

It was hard to see him as a soldier: harder even to recognise the creature before him. Now he was just another frightened, hurt animal that cowered and scuttled and crawled away from any presence or potential threat, dragging his one leg like some maimed thing.

Was this justice? Zim was the bad guy. The threat. Of _course _it was justice. The creature was evil.

So why the relentless damning day-and night guilt? Did heroes ever stop and regret plunging that spear into the villain's chest? Did they wake up one day, just feeling sad for killing the crook just so that the world could be a happier place to live in?

He sat and thought about how those men had moved around the surgical table, Torrent with his clipboard, Williams asking the questions, and Carlson prodding Zim with an electric cattle prod whenever their bound subject so much as_ looked_ like he would refuse to co-operate. Watching Zim get zapped over and over did not grant him the satisfaction he had expected. He was an overnight success now, able to stand by the hip of his father and pose proudly on the podium as a hundred photographers snapped shots of his beaming white smile, and printing it in millions or billions of magazines, newspapers, science articles and books. This was_ his_ fame, and he'd walked all over Zim to get it.

Justice had never been so simple.

But he had never believed it could be so messy.

It was counter-productive to hurt a delicate and potential one-of-a-kind alien life form the human race so desperately wanted to study and learn from – right? But when Zim came under the spotlight behind the glass, the alien had been almost purple with bruising, one feeler bent, his PAK studded with nails, one leg missing. A quick end for the Irken would have been the justice Dib had been really wanting.

But not like this... Never like this.

How much had they extracted from him? And what had they left behind?

_I think they shoved something down his throat. A tube? Some kind of contraption? _

Seeing Zim like this unlocked a very dark and horrific thought; opening like some forbidden door in the mixed, tumultuous sea of his reflections.

Would it better to end it? But would it be painless enough? Quick enough? Merciful enough? What kind of life would the soldier expect to have when he would forever grope through the darkness, reaching for comfort and relief? Removing the PAK was the solution that first came to mind, but even that might take too long. Minutes of slow assured agony was still too long.

His eyes softened, knowing he wouldn't be able to go through with it. He was that same spineless coward standing behind the glass, watching his old enemy go through each and every brutality.

"You like the floor!" Gir approached, keeping in step with Zim's sluggish retreats. "You no thirsty?"

Dib watched as Zim crawled along the wardrobe's edge, his right hand preceding him as he felt the floor space for any obstruction before the rest of him followed. His PAK was pressed against the wood, eyes darting everywhere as if he was in the middle of a chaotic battlefield where bombs were dropping from the sky. An almost greyish shine appeared below his eyes where his nasal slits were, his movements increasingly lethargic to the point of droopiness. One eyelid flicked down. He flicked it back up as if he was violently tugging on a roller blind's cord. That leading-right hand slipped forwards too rapidly for him to maintain balance, and when his chin hit the carpet something in his head must have clicked off. Those dull eyes grew darker even though the lids did not close all the way, and softness replaced the tension in his joints.

"Zim?" He came forwards on his hands and knees. He reached out, braced for a reaction and nudged a bony finger into the Elite's shoulder. The side of Zim's face was flat on the floor, lips parting open with no resistance. "Hey?" Another nudge earned the same responsive.

Gir went round to stand by Zim's head, blinking in confusion.

The PAK was brimming with that internal glow. Carefully Dib dipped down, as close as he dared to Zim's countenance and heard the laboured huffs of breath.

_He must have passed out. Again._

Now was the time to change those bandages at the stump, and the wad of dressing around his throat, but he was frightened of Zim jumping awake in the middle of the treatment.

_Bringing Gir here to see him didn't seem to do much, did it?_

_What were you expecting, Dib? A fucking miracle? You can just undo everything you've done to him by shoving a token of apology in his face. _

He nudged the Irken again, but Zim was out cold. Gir was still standing there, holding the milk carton.

"Wherz his leg gone?" Gir asked innocently enough as any ten year old might ask when their parent had suddenly come home with one limb missing.

"Urm, well..." _Shit, yeah, good luck explaining this to him. The scientists took it. For science of course. _"It was..." Gir was looking at him intently, and in a serious way that was uncharacteristic of him. "...Removed." Was his lame conclusion.

"Whhhy?"

Anger flashed out of him. "Because Gir! Mankind removed it to study it! That's why! It's what he deserved!" His tears of rage were more like fiery embers. He pushed himself to his feet. He needed to think. Needed to get out of this suffocating room, and think!

_I was the hero! I turned him in, as all good guys should do to protect the world!_

_So why do I feel so..._

_...disgusted with myself?_


	2. Prisoners

**Debacle (R)**** \- Subject Zim**

_**Summary: **_

_All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he always wanted. When his wish comes true however, it's not fame he gets, but guilt and regret. Defeating the villain is a little more complicated than that._

_**Disclaimer:**_

_I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine. _

_This is from the old story **Debacle **which I rewrote awhile ago. You can read it as it is, and needs nothing else to accompany it. ^-^ _

_**Warnings:**_

_Dark themes throughout. Some chapters carry a hefty** R** warning._

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**Dib07: **For the longest time, I held back. There has been so many wonderful asks for this story to be posted, and though I relented for a long time (I have so many reasons for keeping this story in the dark), I am happily surprised when you didn't give up asking. A special thank you to** Ikainica** and **VelociraptorLove** for highlighting this particular story in their comments, feedback and general hype for more! This would not have happened without your encouragement. And thank YOU to those who reviewed, favourited and liked. It had me reconsider my general lock-up of Debacle R. It's dark, and the sample one-shot is one example of that. Anyway, without further ado, here it is, my 10k apology! XD

_little side-note:_

If you're new to my stories then I welcome you!

Please review, same as always, it might make new chapters appear faster!

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**Prisoners**

_I wanted freedom_  
_But I'm restricted_  
_I tried to give you up_  
_But I'm addicted_

_Now that you know I'm trapped_  
_Sense of elation_  
_You'll never dream of breaking this fixation_  
_You will squeeze the life out of me_

_Muse - Time is Running Out_

_x_

_'Cause you tear us apart with all the things you don't like_  
_You can't understand that I won't leave_  
_'Til we're finished here and then you'll find out_  
_Where it all went wrong_

_I wrote a note to the jungle and_  
_They wrote me back that I was never crowned_  
_King of the jungle so, there's an end to my horizon_

_Mountains - Biffy Clyro_

_x_

_Look at it._

_No blemishes. No visible pores._

_ Such delicate bone structure. _

_I wonder which constellation it's from, and how far it has travelled. _

_I told you! I told you they were real!_

_It's an alien. A real alien. _

_What ugly eyes you have._

_Biology and evolution still has many things to teach us._

_Why is it green?_

_It's so... small. Like a mouse. I imagined aliens to be... taller._

_(Never thought it would come to this, did you?)_

Before he had come to any real awareness, he was conscious of the bickering voices. They seemed to get louder, like rising waves as a storm blew in. There was a strong bleach-like smell, and bright probing lights searing his closed eyelids. He went to raise a hand to test the bruise he knew he had there, he could feel it throbbing, but his arm would not follow suit as if it had been tied down. He did not remember falling asleep, or really submitting to any kind of unconsciousness.

Groggily opening his eyes, he could hardly comprehend what he was seeing, and if it had any authenticity. Humans had gathered in one big intimidating group, and they were throwing their arms at each other behind an observation screen. The tallest among them stood in the midst, trying to calm the situation while a scientist and a human in military fatigues tried to strangle one another. Their hands would often come within inches of making contact before the professor could part them aside with sweeps of his long arms.

This human pomposity was soon flung far from his immediate concerns when he again went to move. Blinking stupidly, head hurting, he saw without really seeing the black cuffs hugging his wrists to the steel of a platform. He tried moving his legs, and the same resistance impeded them in the same way. The panic was there, behind his chest wall, surging suddenly like a bubble, and he tried to swallow it down before he lost his immediate senses.

He was confronted by that same malodorous stink that made his antennae curl: scents of the cold and sterile, with the sickly undertones of antiseptics and sweat, all suffused by the collective odour of man. There was another smell coming off his skin and torn uniform: the fumes of fusion vapour.

He opened his dark magenta eyes to their fullest, twice reflecting the fluorescent strips of lighting above and the observation mirror directly ahead. Above the main window that ran from wall to wall was a second, smaller screen, and in that screen was a familiar face staring back.

The human's words sliced perfectly through his barriers. He could still feel his hands on his throat.

_(Never thought it would come to this, did you?)_

His claws twitched and flexed at the steel shelf underneath.

_(Any last words?)_

He made to lean forwards, discovering the nylon strap secured across his chest. When he clenched his fists he did not feel the soft pliability of his gloves. His toes were exposed too. He wiggled them, and they wiggled back.

Panic shot into him in sharp, convulsive spurts, and this would have goaded the PAK to activate, promptly stimulating him with whatever battle-ready chemicals and enhancers were needed, but the PAK whirred uncomfortably instead, its metal underside overly hot against his spine like it had been left to cook in the sun all day.

He stared at the men in their white coats staring back, and the man in the military fatigues had stopped fighting a moment to gaze at him as if he was something distasteful –like something on the bottom of a shoe.

_(Well? Aren't you going to say anything?)_

His antennae hitched up like taut cables, eyes snatching looks at the gormless faces behind the screen. Some wore face masks, hiding their mouths and noses, while others wore high collars or goggles. They appeared less like beings of mortal flesh and blood, and more like soulless apparitions or machines. His nightmares had always centred on something like this, with beings like these, him trapped in a cold, vast room where there were no windows, no colours or warmth, only white and grey walls that imposed helplessness and fear. He'd wake, twisting out of hot and sweaty sheets, not sure if he had screamed, and Gir would be there to see if he was okay. The Angry Monkey show would be on TV like every morning, and he would...

"Well?" Asked the man in the fatigues to his stupefied colleagues. They stood, uncertain behind the glass as if they were looking in on something rare and impossible. "This isn't an exhibit! Give me that!" And he went to grab a microphone. He was shouting into it, the intercom above Zim relaying his officious barks. "Where do you plan to invade first? How many of you are we dealing with? Answer me!"

Another colleague brushed up against the sergeant, trying to retake the microphone: "Is there life after death?"

Professor Membrane was forced to push both of them from the microphone again. "Gentlemen! Please!" His voice boomed through the intercom. "There is plenty of time for you to..."

Carlson, the man in the fatigues, jabbed the bony point of his finger into the professor's chest. "That thing is an enemy and has already shown what it can do! Our Division should take full priority of this threat! There may be no time! They might be coming right now!"

The professor did not look perturbed. "I don't think that is the case. My son has clearly stated that..."

"I read his files! And it means nothing! He can't predict an invasion anymore than you can!"

"It's looking at us." Dr. Williams said softly. "I wonder what its thinking. Its use of our language is..."

"Flawless." The professor said. "Here. Let me try something." He moved the microphone closer to his collar and asked fluently: "Und wie geht es dir heute?"

Zim looked at him directly and snapped back in perfect German: "Geh und fick dich selbst!"

There was a great gasp from the community of onlookers.

"I'll be." Murmured Dr. Williams.

"Observe the subject's sophisticated understanding of the human language." Membrane continued, fully composed, "He prefers to speak in English, rather than that of his own language, if indeed he has a language of his own."

"That damn thing's a spy! Adapted to speak any human language!" Carlson did not look nearly as perplexed or as bemused as the others. His hardened scowl and tinder-dry growl remained. "We are not here to play games with it. I want results, now!"

_I'm not an IT!_ Zim inwardly raged as he watched them gawp. _I am your worst nightmare! I'll fight you all! I will break you sooner than you'll ever break me!_

"We need a brilliant and remarkable psychologist for this, I believe!" The professor looked amongst the small gathering of scientists and the sergeant, but they looked to him expectantly, without volunteering. "We have a doctor, a mathematician and a technician! Oh scrap that. We_ did_ have a technician." He said soberly. "In any case! I shall take the position for now!"

"How is she? The tech? That _thing_ took her arm clear off." Torrent had his hands on the deck of the console, close to the microphone, eyes rapt on the little thing in the centre of the wide and polished room.

"It was an accident." Membrane said softly. "She didn't follow protocol."

"Neither did you." Torrent gave him a look out of the corner of his eye. The others seemed to be looking at the professor too with that same icy mistrust. "In any case," the scientist's voice remained bitter, "it's too much of a coincidence that the little monster targeted the technician. It has already shown us how important that machine is on its back, and it can't stand anyone touching it."

The professor had watched the tragedy unfold during Zim's initial arrival. Groggy and battered, the creature had been in a semi-conscious state. Worried of harming it further by infusing drugs into its system to keep it compliant, they had opted to offload the creature from the vehicle immediately into a metal crate, but while the creature was still in transit, four long gangly steel rods had burst out from within, promptly followed by a pink laser that had cut through the crate's metal and metal mesh interior.

The scientists had scrambled to and fro like rats trapped in a fiery barn, clambering for the exit. The creature had looked on, awash with the same hysteria that had so gripped the humans. He could barely stand, the chrome of the prosthetics flowing out like additional claws. Lucinda had come up behind him with a cattle-prod. She had managed to hit him with it, directly onto that tortoise-like shell and the creature had staggered, pain causing his arm to dangle a moment as his antennae and eyelids sporadically twitched. Two of the four prosthetics swept her off her feet with a simultaneous and elegant transition that was proficient as they were fast, and in the same heartbeat the other two sword-arms sliced into her deltoid muscle, ripping it free from her shoulder. Red blood splattered that green and pale face, red blood that made him hiss and swat at the air as if her very blood was toxic. Dr. Williams came with a net as if the alien was no more than a wild dog that needed to be coerced back into its cage, and with one perfunctory sweep of a chrome leg he too was swept aside as if his weight counted for nothing.

Used to lab animals that cried and whimpered behind metal bars, the scientists had little experience with a non-compliant creature of intelligence and weaponry, and were only just beginning to understand what they were dealing with.

Dazed, head habitually dangling from time to time, Zim met their charge with angry and frightened desperation, crimson blood slashed across his face and eyes. The PAK legs rose like crooked tarantula limbs, elongating his height and runtish size to something truly formidable.

The professor had stood in the centre of this debacle; hands behind his back, watching his colleagues run and scream. He waited for the moment. The alien was tiring, his eyes haplessly trying to keep up with his numerous targets, his wounds smoking or bleeding with fusion damage.

"Zim."

The alien turned to look up, one eyelid sunken down, face twisted in hurt and terror. The professor brought up a hand to draw him close, and the creature was so exhausted and delirious that he did not see the syringe. He stuck the needle into his neck; Zim withdrew, gasping, groping insanely for the needle and plucking it out – only to stare wildly at it from those clawtips in surprise. Slowly those eyes lifted to look into his, and his knee wobbled. He went crashing to the floor, his spider legs retracting as smoothly as silk back into the oval device.

"No!"

His knees also crashed to the floor seconds later beside the Irken, his belly filling with ice. He reached out, trying to shake the Irken back to life – life that had been there moments before.

"What in god's name have you done?" Dr. Williams was beside him. Both of them could hear weak screams coming from Lucinda who was holding what was left of her shoulder.

"I gave him a narcotic, a sleep-inducing narcotic!" For two moments he could not remember the name of the drug. "K-Ketamine!"

Dr. Williams did not spare a moment to question his decision. He spoke into the radio transceiver fixed to his lapel. "Torrent, I'm going to need an antidote for Ketamine. Get it now, and bring it to the main foyer!"

The sergeant coughed into the back of his hand before straightening, bringing Membrane out of his daydream.

"Uh?" Came the high squeal from the alien. They held their collective breath, looking at this tiny creature sitting on its metal chair-like platform: the tatters of its salmon-pink sleeve sagging down its right arm. "Excuse me? Zim requires your attention."

"Zim? What is a Zim?" Carlson's voice fell to an impatient whisper.

"That's the little one's name." The professor answered amiably, "He tends to refer to himself in third person."

Torrent jabbed a dark look in his direction.

The creature blithely continued. "There's been a mistake. I'm no alien! Now release me, and I'll be on my way!"

Some of the men in white coats started scribbling away in their notebooks or datapads.

The creature, realizing he was being ignored, started to struggle against the restraints. "Release me, before I activate something... horrible! Like a tornado full of shopping baskets! Or... Or a giant pig that releases gas or something! I can drop every kind of filth down upon you all, and watch you drown in cheese!"

More notes were scribbled, with comments busily exchanged between them.

"Subject seems to resort to threats." Dr. Williams observed.

"The thing's emotional. What did Dib say about it? From those files?"

"That it has a tendency to go into 'rages?'" Rick asked, who had briefly skimmed through the files.

"I am no subject!" Zim shouted behind the glass, "I am ZIM! I will make you scream it before I'm done with you fools!"

Dr. Williams was tapping away on his datapad. "Subject continually uses intimidation, and resorts to insults on most occasions. Either the subject is rehearsing the words it has been taught without putting them into context, or the subject is extremely intelligent, and knows exactly what it is saying."

"Well, he certainly is confident." Said the professor.

"Aggression." Carlson murmured as if to himself. "It's part of this thing's military programming, as your son stated quite clearly in his files. And it pretended to be one of us. All this time." When there was no forthcoming answer from the gaggle of men in white, he added, "Dib Membrane alerted us of its presence, and we ignored him. Can you imagine this alien running around, disguised as a human, infiltrating our systems for the 'coming invasion?'" He quoted one of Dib's lines from his documentation reports.

Zim pushed against the nylon strap that had started to cut into his chest. His eyes would flicker upwards at the top observation screen, and he'd see the shine of those glasses, and the scythe of hair, and additional lines would appear around his eyes and mouth when a renewed snarl twisted his lips.

"Cowards!" He squealed into the numbing anaesthesia of their watchful stupor, the emptiness of his prison echoing with his cries. "Release me or suffer!" He pulled and pushed against the restraints, calling upon the PAK from every linked neuron. His PAK would jostle internally, the mantle's ports desperately trying to part ways to expose their armaments.

"Are we recording this?" Dr. Williams asked.

"We record everything." The professor patted the monitor screens gently.

"You buffoons! Wasting time!" The sergeant reached for the microphone. "Why are you here? How many of you are out there? What kind of military power do you possess? What weaknesses have you discovered?"

Membrane pried it back off him. "No, no no! Biological study must come first! We need to know what his capabilities are; his limitations, what his blood culture is, what diseases are present, and _then _we can refine our studies by cross-examining him and..."

The sergeant straightened, fixing eyes of steel upon the professor's reflective goggles. "Your son tells us that this thing can miraculously heal itself, and that it possesses super fast regenerative powers! That's what the military is invested in, and that's what you're invested in!"

"All in due time."

"To do what? Ask what kind of music it likes? What color it prefers? Your son mentioned an 'Armada!' They could be on their way, right now!"

"You misunderstand the process." Membrane answered softly. "We could be dealing with a very delicate organism. The drug Ketamine for instance, induced a type of anaphylaxis. We believe it has something to do with his metabolism: his body can quickly soak up any drug. We need to sedate the subject in the correct way before any further..."

"No! Sedation? Are you out of your cock-a-doodie mind?" He was ramming his finger against the professor's chest, "We need to determine its pain threshold, its endurance levels and abilities! Restrain it by any means possible, but we are not numbing that thing on drugs! Understand! I'm in charge! I can just as easily take this institute and the creature away and have my men run all the tests! This is America! And by god I will protect this beautiful country, even if it means tearing this place to the ground! Do I make myself clear?"

Membrane stood there a moment, neither yielding nor complying. Eventually he gave a slow nod. "I understand."

"You scientists like to dote on figures and algorithms for deductions but we rely on sterner truths, and quicker results. You underestimate the worth of affliction, gentlemen. This alien will tell us everything with proper persuasion."

-x-

Williams adjusted the right cuff until Zim couldn't lift his wrist a millimetre from the steel arm. The Irken spat and growled; trying to get his teeth into anyone who came too close. He had almost succeeded. Williams, the older of the two with white tufts of hair sticking over his ears, had placed monitoring pads over his chest. He tried to jam his teeth over the fat fingers of his glove, but always missed by inches.

They had gently removed the last shreds of his uniform without ceremony, exposing him to his gaping and gawping audience. Warmth rose into his cheeks, turning them avocado green, and his eyes could no longer hold onto the menacing faces of those scrutinizing him.

His uniform was then carted off on a trolley as if it was a specimen of its own and he watched his belongings depart with a kind of cold, sinking horror.

_Wait... that's... mine._

After watching his clothing disappear, he pushed and fought against his fetters with renewed despair, which always presented the same dead-end results. More telemetry pads were placed on his diaphragm and sternum, and on both sides of his skull. He could not shake them off. These lines running over him were hooked to a little machine nearby. Numbers and pulsations bleeped back. In one clap the rage was back, his ankles jerking against the restraints, restraints that were insulated in heavy-duty plastic to reduce friction from sores and rub marks. All he wanted was to bring up a thigh to hide his undercarriage from the gawpers, or maybe a hand so he could throw it over his eyes to try and hide from them. Rattling in the metal of his prison produced more sweat, more breathless hisses and more humiliation.

Two tall humans with faces enclosed behind helmets entered the room wearing hazmat suits. The others remained exclusively stationed behind the safety of the glass, watching with the same baffled expressions.

The professor stood off to one side behind the screen, arms folded, goggles without expression. As much as Zim knew he shouldn't be tempted, he lifted his eyes upwards to see his nemesis staring back. He expected the young man to be waving condescendingly, or laughing while he endured these degrading tests and frequent manhandling, but the human was looking down with a set expression that revealed very little.

The little platform began to hum as it tipped him suddenly backwards. He yelped to watch the floor sweep away, his feet dangling in the air. Gloved hands came to help manipulate the sitting platform into more of a table. His bound ankles and wrists remained just as secure as before, though he fought and pulled and struggled. His PAK was slotted through an opening. And then the table was turned, him strapped to its centre, and he realized with slow deliberation that the table could turn or flip to a full three-sixty. If they wanted him upside down, a simple turn on the dial would do it. They could even position him to lie horizontally upside down, like he was a fly trapped on sticky paper.

They flipped him round so that he was confronted with the floor. His antennae dangled in front of his eyes, and he was aware of their big, clumsy boots and their hulking shadows cast on the polished linoleum. His weight was transferred to his wrists and ankles as he leaned against the restraints.

He was consumed with the urge to pee. His bladder was tight, and any movement made it worse.

"Hmm, vitals seem stable." Dr. Williams was presiding over the monitor feed, watching numbers rise and fall.

"How do you know if what you're seeing is normal?" His colleague and inferior asked.

"We'll see, in due time, won't we? Torrent, grab that soldering pen and begin the procedure. Remember, this is very delicate! We just want to fuse the seams together like last time. Do you think you can do this?"

"If we truly want to disarm this little mouse, why don't we just remove whatever the hell this oval thing is?" Torrent grabbed the device from a tray beside a category of surgical tools. The device was similar to a tazer. The scientist held it above the creature's upturned and exposed PAK that sat snugly from the opening in the table like an exposed metal belly. Three pink ports glowed a resplendent pink that seemed to ebb and flow as if it was following a pattern or an internal rhythm. Pink radiated against the translucent plastic of their helmets.

"I wouldn't try to remove it." Membrane's voice echoed back from the overhead intercom. "Not until we've understood more of this creature's biological makeup, and how his body interacts and functions with this mechanical construct."

"It does appear to be attached..." Williams nudged the base of it gently, earning a growl from their patient beneath the table.

"And how do you know it hasn't just got missiles packed away in there?" Torrent turned to the professor standing behind the observation screen.

"Torrent! Concentrate!" Dr. Williams gestured at him over the shiny and glowing metal dome.

Holding the soldering pen between his thumb and index finger, Torrent poked it into a tiny slot into the side of the subject's PAK. Zim howled in reply as walled-off chemicals and reservoirs of warmth, painkillers and nutrients entered his system all at once.

Torrent lifted up the pen and looked to Williams with a confused look on his face. Williams was shaking his head. "Let me! You hamfist everything!"

Back in the observation room, the professor muttered aloud, "They shouldn't really be touching it."

"If it was up to you and your bumbling fools, it would take you months to learn anything from this alien!" Growled Carlson.

Zim could smell the corrosion as they worked. Battering himself against the manacles only wore himself out, and when fighting and pushing and shoving did nothing, he fell back on demands that had more of a mewling ring to it: "S-Stop! Fools! You don't know what you're doing! Let me go!"

Williams tenderly went around the near-invisible seams as if he was merely drawing out lines for images in a colouring book. The soldering pen went smoothly along the curved mantle, exacting a strong effluvium of burning metal and plastic. "I'm in the process of inhibiting its metal contraption with some success. It appears to be a component powered by some kind of energy from within. We'll perform an ECG reading on it, and other tests to scan what's inside, and to verify how it works. If we seal the seams, it should temporarily keep parts of it from opening."

"It could be radioactive!" Torrent was swapping looks between the portable ECG and EEG readings to the tortoise-shell of the device. "Dib called it a 'PAK,' but even he doesn't know what that stands for, or what the damn thing is or does!"

"Patience, Torrent, patience. There are no immediate answers in science. There now. I believe we are done."

"What about those ports? They're still glowing, like they're radioactive or something!"

Williams sighed. "Don't you have a job to do? Take a sample of its blood. Unless you're quite happy to sit back and watch of course." He tapped the table, and it slowly swung back into a vertical position holding Zim upright, the weight now on his ankles.

Torrent watched the creature's right antenna flicker towards him, its length tense and rigid. "It's gonna bite my arm clean off!"

"Don't be such a baby and do as you are told!" William shoved the capped hypodermic needle into his hand. "Now take the sample!"

"You're not sticking anything in me, you freaks!" Squealed their angry subject.

Torrent uncapped the needle, which was a fiddly job with gloved fingers, and pushed down on the plunger before approaching the alien. Its skin looked pale under their bright florescent lights and he could see the visible fabric of delicate bones beneath. If one looked really carefully with a magnifying glass, you could see its dark veins networking across the papery thinness of its skin. As it breathed, its chest swelled up and down like the humble carbon-based life form that required oxygen to live.

Not quite knowing if it had a vein to draw from, he stuck the needle into its arm above the elbow joint and heard the thing rattle out a scream that hurt his ears even through the thick plastic of his helmet. He pulled on the plunger, and dark algae green began to fill the syringe. One of its antennas jerked again; wriggling like the leg of a woodlouse. Torrent jerked to get away from it, ripping the skin as the needle tore free. The syringe bounced across the floor. Rich green spluttered out of the needle hole, but when William turned to grab something to stem the flow, he saw that there was no need. In the next second the bleeding had stopped, and the aperture of damage had coagulated.

As Williams stared, Torrent dispensed the wasted syringe into a machine. "Fuck's sake!"

"I'll do it, like I have to do everything. Good god boy, where did they get you from?" Williams prepped a new sterile needle, and with professional tenderness, tightened a strap above the elbow, and pierced the steel tip into Zim's other arm.

"Stop it!" The creature snorted, trying to twist pinkish teeth his way. "You savages!"

"We really ought to gag it." Torrent remarked. "And I hate wearing these damn suits. They make everything awkward. That thing almost bit me because I couldn't move away in time! What if it has rabies or something?"

"Will you shut it, boy?" He took the second sample, and again the needle hole healed over, leaving little more than a bruise that also faded before his eyes.

The sergeant and the professor had seen this sudden healing, but could not bring themselves to say exactly what they'd seen. It was simply too impossible. It was too early to make any assumptions until they knew more about their strange and otherworldly subject.

"Fuck you both!" Zim bucked and arched, trying to worm his way out of his constraints.

Williams went about his duties with that same calmness. "Torrent. Hold his head please. Do you have that bottle?"

"Excuse me? What?"

"I need to check the alien's gums and teeth. They're usually the best indicator of malnutrition or disease."

"You owe a drink, old man." He put his gloved fingers towards the creature's skull, clamping his fingers down on both sides towards the back of the neck whilst trying to avoid the antennae as they swept and moved around.

Employing a metal clamp similarly used on horses to look at their teeth, Williams tried to tease it into the Irken's mouth without preamble. Zim protested, locking his teeth together to resist the intrusion. A spurt of ice cold water from a bottle made his muscles wind into cords, and he gasped out, and in went the metal clamp. It was colder than the spray, and jabbed and filled his mouth with its uncomfortable bulk.

"Now, now." Williams said. "We're just checking your teeth and throat. No need to worry." But he spoke to him as one would speak to a dumb and deaf pet.

"You're not supposed to be talking to it." Torrent was always a remark away, watching the intentions and actions of the team as if he worked for someone other than them.

"And why ever not? If it helps with its anxieties, it helps with mine until the professor tells me otherwise." Adjusting the external crank he grinded Zim's teeth apart.

"Gods he's strong!" Torrent was still holding his head, keeping the subject from swinging away from Williams, and keeping him from knocking them out with it.

With his mouth open, Williams shone a medical flashlight along its zipper-like teeth and slightly tainted pink gums. "Tongue appears very different to ours. It's long, thin and tapered, much like a lizard's. It has indents, or lines segmented along its length. It's dark purple in colour."

"Uuuukk!" The Irken tried gurgling whatever vulgarity he was trying to articulate.

"Teeth are tainted pink, as are its gums. Gums seem pale, but this may be normal. Throat looks healthy. There seems to be no sign or indication of dehydration. The teeth show wear and tear, but there are no fractures, no missing teeth and no discoloration. There were molars at the back, but the frontal and middle teeth were all of similar size and shape. It seems one shape serves every purpose, whether it is for biting, cutting or grinding."

"Like a shark's mouth." Torrent was only too happy to add.

William looked irritably at the younger man as he took his fingers away from Zim's mouth. The clamp was removed; the Irken took a relieved breath, and was then spitting and yelling at them with curses.

The signal was made from the professor, and Torrent produced a gag – little more than a cloth really – and held it out at either end, walking towards their biting, complaining subject. "Don't you dare!" The alien's screams were painfully high-pitched, and Torrent could hear bells chiming in his ears. It was a relief when the alien was only too happy to chomp on something: pink garish teeth grinding over the flaccid and dusty material, and Torrent quickly tied it round the back of its neck. The alien muffled and tried to scream through it, eyes squeezed shut as he struggled, but the pacifier to the bleating and overall racket was a paradise.

Grabbing a measuring tape, Williams recorded Zim's length, measuring his toes to his skull, and recorded a height of 70 cm which equated to 27 inches. His antenna made up another 28 cm. He measured the width of his chest and length. Next he examined Zim's left arm and felt along it, feeling how supple the muscle was in rest, and how strong the bone when he put pressure on it.

"We need to run some tests without these restraints." He spoke to the onlookers in the observation room. "To see how he moves, and how his skeleton and muscles respond to stimulus. I believe it is quite a muscular creature, but not with the muscles we have. There are no obvious bulges of muscle and no obvious fatty tissue. It doesn't have the biceps we have, or the thickening of tissue present in muscle composition."

Torrent meanwhile was growing impatient. "Maybe it's not muscle at all." He pointed out. "What do insects have?"

"Exoskeletons." Williams replied over the sound of the creature's desperate mumbles. "Hmm... maybe it's a combination of both?"

"You're saying it's a bug? A dirty, crawling insect?" Torrent asked. "That would explain its ugly eyes. But insects don't breathe through their mouths! They don't have lungs! This... this is a goddamn monster created in someone's fucking basement!"

He got more annoyed when Williams just continued to stand there, prodding and poking its arm as the alien lay on the table like some special sarcophagus that could not be opened by regular means.

"Does it even have organs?" Torrent continued. "For that matter, do insects have organs?"

"That, they do," Said Williams, "They have an open circulatory system as opposed to our closed circulatory system. Our blood is confined within blood vessels, arteries and the like, whereas insect blood flows freely throughout the body. Like mush. It's all in the same fluid. Some arthropods have pumps that act like a heart." William folded his arms in front of his chest. "To open up this creature - alive - will be the most memorable and ambitious event mankind has ever known. The world will remember what we did, and discovered, for all time."

Torrent looked ill as he stood by the monitoring machine. "A vivisection."

"I'm invested in cardiology and natural science, Torrent. Biology still has much to teach us. And this creature may be our only way of finding out what evolution is capable of. We could create new medicine, new drugs and enhancements from our studies, even if it means cutting pieces off it, one by one."

"Uh huh." Torrent was used to dissecting mice. They were tiny, and didn't verbally complain or fight back. Dr. Williams meanwhile had travelled the world learning and studying just about every animal ever to exist, often making remarkable breakthroughs in biology even to this day, whereas Torrent was just an ordinary in comparison; he had no specific key skill or profession. He carted things around, cleaned up the blood, counted the drugs going in and the dispensaries going out.

"Where is that electromagnetic scanner?"

The device came down, a massive dome with glistening energy beams flowing through its glass rim. It settled over Zim without touching him, but the Irken's struggles were suddenly emphasised, and his mutinous squeaks and rants were back. He had managed to shake the gag out of his mouth. "The Armada is going to destroy yooou filth!"

"Did you hear that? He said 'Armada.'" Torrent looked to the machine as it dropped over their little subject entirely, walling him off from view except for his legs that still strained against their bonds. Raw marks were beginning to appear around the bone of his ankle joints.

"Release me!" Came more angry grunts and squealing; "Now! And I'll only blow up some of the planet!"

Torrent stared at the machine cocooning the creature. The sergeant meanwhile was looking rather comfortable as if he had won a valued prize but was too respectable to boast about it. "That there, gentlemen, is the secret. Once we crack it, all will fall into place."

The creature's struggles continued. "Stop it!" His scratchy squawks could be heard over the low mechanical drone: "You have no right! You're all gagging for conquest! I hate you! I hate you all! You fifthly dirt fuckers!"

All that met Zim in answer was the desultory hum of the machine.

-x-

"Wonder what it eats? Human flesh?"

"According to that nutty Membrane kid, it's been running loose on Earth for years. So it's found _something_ to feed on."

"Maybe it's acclimatized to the environment and eats from local food sources?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know! Human flesh?"

"Doesn't it say anything from that insane kid's files?"

"Not on food it doesn't."

He watched the two scientists plonk food onto their plastic meal trays and walk away, side by side; chatting away as if what they'd seen was no more extraordinary than a tiger up-close. Perhaps they were simply perplexed; an alien had been dropped into their laps.

Perhaps _he _was suffering a kind of abrupt perplexity, though he didn't know its cause.

He'd hardly slept, and the eggs and toast he'd had in the morning tasted like soggy cardboard. Most, if not all the food he had eaten kind of ended up tasting like soggy cardboard.

_"Weight, 19 lbs. Temperature, 37 degrees Celsius. Heart rate, three hundred and seventy."_

_"That thing on its back must weigh some of that." _He heard Torrent saying._ "What kind of monster has a contraption that can produce weapons or stilts from its back like that?"_

They ticked off numbers and data as if they were discerning an abnormal lump of flesh. Their indifference, especially Dr. Williams', made him cringe behind the observation glass. He reminded himself that these were the same people who experimented on animals with no guilt or emotion whatsoever, and went home to their families as if the horrors they had committed were nothing remarkable.

_So why do they still give me funny looks? Why do they still refer to me as 'insane?'_

That wasn't how it was supposed to work. Where was the instant promotion that sent him soaring up the social ladder?

He sat in his private observation office on the topmost section above the gathered committee as if he were some high-paying entrepreneur. The private chamber never felt cosy, or warm, in fact it was more likened to a waiting room in a hospital, or a solitary office space that was never meant to hold much warmth or comfort. It had ample room for a fridge, a sofa, and any luxury while he contentedly watched them perform the preliminary evaluations on subject A01. Short for Alien Subject One in the assumption they may find more 'subjects,' and that the alien (his alien) was the first.

Zim was no longer Zim. He was a thing now, an interesting topic, a formula to some secret they were completely obsessed with, or an unsightly beast that had to be strapped, caged, and provoked. When pioneers first stepped foot on darkest Africa, and climbed into those misty mountains, they encountered the gorilla for the first time, and shot them on sight: believing these creatures to be purely aggressive based on their monstrous appearance, when in fact they were one of the gentlest species on the planet. They reacted to Zim much the same way, cautiously keeping their distance as if he was a set spring, and disregarding the fact that Dib, among many other people, had maintained close contact with the Irken over the years.

Separating himself from the majority of the experiments and hands-on approaches was his father's idea. He resisted at first, wishing to be at the forefront of every inspection and debate – it was partly to be in control – to be continually recognised as 'the one' who gave them the alien. But he began to see why his father had persuaded him to sit comfortably in the back row.

He could never acquire an appetite in this place. The scientists all ate readily every meal time, as if their experimentations and daily torture routines were an ordinary part of their lives that governed no conscience. He could imagine them all sleeping like babes at the end of every shift, never once being haunted by what they had done to Zim, or any animal; perhaps because medical breakthroughs deserved the sacrifices necessary for human lives to essentially survive where disease, old age and cancer was rampant in society. He'd seen the puppies. Usually they were a Labrador breed, or beagle, most being twelve weeks old. They'd continually whimper behind the bars of their overly small prisons, wagging their tails and poking their noses between the bars whenever Dib approached. Puppies were habitual testers of cosmetics, new cancer drugs, and cancer itself. Bigger animals usually gave more reliable results, their metabolisms slower than that of rats or mice.

Zim was now part of this statistic, and was now an unwilling subject doomed to give up his biological coding to 'better' humanity. Dib was therefore contributing to human society, regardless as to the methods they would extract from the alien in time.

He sat on a lone table, overlooking his tepid offerings of dry bacon, dry eggs and oatmeal bread. With Zim out of the way, this would hopefully shut down all other Irken machinations – such as the terrible and looming Armada. He had nightmares that made him spring awake, gripping the bed sheets in the middle of the night, dreaming that Zim had been leading an army of Irkens, that they had stormed Earth, and were enslaving and killing wherever they went. Sometimes he'd dream of his leaders leering down from high above: their monstrous forms and monstrous thoughts filling him with terror of what they might do to him should they ever meet. Each day was another day given without being conquered, and he knew he had to do something before the next day eclipsed all hope.

His phone started to jingle out the 'Mysterious Mysteries of Strange Mystery' theme song. Normally he had it switched off. Personnel had their phones confiscated when they entered the deeper levels of Geneva.

He slipped it from his pocket, and sighed when he saw her name pop up on the screen. For the total of two seconds he considered rejecting the call. He lifted it to his ear. "Yeah?"

Her voice grated into his ear as if she was sitting directly beside him. "Do you realize what you've done?"

Her words had this habit of hitting him as if they were bricks. His defences were never worth a damn with her, as she always effortlessly got through them. Disappointment smouldered from within him, as empty as dark corridors before anger could shoulder it aside. "What do you mean? Of course I realize! I saved the world!"

"You didn't do it for the world."

Eyes were on him. The white coats tried not to be too obvious about it, but he caught the quick, curious glances like the children in class whenever he loudly proclaimed something. Their conversational noise around the tables had fallen dramatically as well. He turned away from them as best he could. "What are you getting at? A bit of gratitude is all I ask."

"Gratitude?" Her voice grated as stone grated against stone. "Of course. This has always been about self-gratification with you. Well. Whatever. You'll sleep like a baby, won't you?"

"You're wrong, Gaz! I'm the selfless one here! Risking my life, while you sat playing your stupid video games!" He heard the deadening click as he was cut off. He sat with the phone still raised to his ear; still catching up to the realization that she had ended the call.

He had risen to fame so quickly and so suddenly that he had probably earned some jealously from his usually apathetic sister. He was no longer the backseat achiever, no longer the laughing stock; the punch line to the joke. His school life still haunted him, knowing he'd always be the one set aside, the one who would always be treated differently, as if he had a tattoo on his forehead telling the world of his ostracism.

Once he had Zim in chains, all that hurt would go away.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket with more force than was necessary and stood up, food untouched. His eyes were dry and ached all the time, while his head pounded. Leaving the canteen seemed to lift the mood, for the men in white coats started nattering away again.

He entered the elevator feeling more confused about the situation than anything. He had done the right thing. The world was finally _safe_. Children could play outdoors without ever having to worry about a marauding monster from the stars.

He went towards the executive's exit in the hopes of avoiding the press and went through the doors onto the plaza.

The interviewers and news reporters spotted him almost at once, and they started stampeding towards him with their microphones, cameras and clipboards.

It felt good to be_ recognised_, like he actually meant something, to be an icon in human history where he would be remembered forever as the first human to reveal and incapacitate an extraterrestrial.

His father was noticing him more, listening to him more. He had patted him on the shoulder this morning, as though acting on guilt for having shut him out all this time. No longer would he be pushed aside, or overlooked. Carlson had even shaken his hand, promising him a shiny medal for saving America.

Dib turned to face the paparazzi, throwing up a bright victory smile as the cameras started to bombard him with pulverising flashes. His vision was nothing more than white and black afterimages.

"And how did you secure the alien?" A soft-felted microphone was shoved towards him, the interviewer looking at him with equal hunger. Other interviewers pressed around him, penning him in the centre like a cornered thing unable to escape. Usually he had his father beside him, or Dr. Williams who took the heat of the technical questions so that he was free to wave, smile and sign autographs.

_So this is what being a celebrity feels like._

He had always shared some celebrity status and recognition thanks to his father's endeavours, but that was only because he'd been engulfed by his shadow, and was mostly ever a side-attraction, and even that had its labels: labels that seemed to hold sway over him. Now they were finally falling asunder: he was the young man who had resisted opposition: the one who believed when others doubted. His tenacity would go on to inspire others.

Zim's downfall was enough to pave the rest of his life in gold.

There were more people today, holding up posters and boards behind the immediate wall of the pressing media, and slapped boldly on these boards were the slogans:

'ALIENS HAVE RIGHTS TOO.'

'FREEDOM FOR ALL LIFE.'

'RESPECT EXISTENCE OR EXPECT RESISTANCE.'

'SAVE THE ALIEN!'

More microphones were coming his way until they practically filled his vision.

He wished his father was by his side.

"How long have you known about the creature?"

"Why is it green?"

"What gave the advantage?"

"What other secrets about it can you tell us?"

"Where's its ship?"

Dib kept up his smile. "I regretfully can't answer all your questions at the moment, as I cannot reveal too much until they learn more about the alien."

They didn't seem to hear him. They pressed closer, microphones practically pushing him into more microphones behind him. "Should we be worried? Will there be an invasion?"

"How safe are we?"

"The scientists will tell us." Dib informed them in desperation.

"How many of them are out there?"

"What about the children? How safe are they?"

"Can we believe your statements? Aren't you the insane child?"

Dib began to sweat as the microphones and cameras pressed forwards like a collective army; human faces lost beneath lightning flashes and metal domes. Prof. Membrane suddenly appeared, coming between him and the media like an extending wall of protection. "That's enough for today." The professor said in his no-nonsense voice. He seemed to rise up amongst them, pushing them back with just a word. "I'm sure we're all very excited about Dib's discovery and the alien, now safely secured by the authorities! If we have any new information, we'll be sure to let you know!" He turned to Dib while the interviewers stood idly around them, reluctant to leave. They continued to blast off snaps with their cameras, filling the plaza with conflicting, sporadic flashes.

The professor led his son away, and the paparazzi parted, dropping back to the protesting rabble holding the posters and boards. There was an intermittent mix of praise, questioning and hate aimed at the two of them as they made their way to the public parking allotment. Dib turned back to look.

The news reporters and freelance journalists had gathered around like a herd of animals and weren't moving as if they intended to stay all day and night. Some of them had even spread out as if to dominate the lower lab exits in the hopes of pinning down some other hapless victim for questioning if they tried to leave Geneva.

"I think our Hero of the World deserves a break from all the attention, wouldn't you say?" He amicably said, pounding his son on the back or shoulder, wherever his giant hand happened to land, and Dib was almost thrown forward by the physical applause.

Dib forced out a tepid smile. He was tired, from the attention, and from the sudden crazy uplift of euphoria at the dawning surrealism of a life now changed, forever. It was hard to believe that this was really happening, even when he'd fought so hard, and risked so much just to gain some legitimacy.

_See, dad? I told you so. I was right. All those times you pushed me away, claiming my assertions as 'fake,' for 'attention.' As 'crazy.' Now do you see?_

His father offered him a ride home, even when his old beat-up blue Toyota was there in front of them. Dib took him up on that offer, choosing to enjoy the attention and fatherly care he had been missing out on. He could enjoy these privileges for as long as he could.

-x-

The house was quiet. He went in and turned the hall light on, and a certain silence seemed to fill his ears and head and heart as if his home wasn't really a house filled with light and furniture, but a space where only old memories were contained, breathing back past hurts and old regrets.

He didn't bother taking his jacket off or his boots. He tramped into the kitchen and opened the fridge to see what little he had there. Still, there was champagne.

He grabbed the bottle, wrestled off the cork that went off with an enormous POP and poured himself a glass. He took the glass and bottle with him to the parlour where he sat on the couch, recounting the ways Zim had taunted him and hurt him, and nearly destroyed him.

"Well, your wish has come true, Dib, congratu-_fucking_-lations." He toasted the air, before slurping down the contents of the glass. The champagne was pleasantly cold, and fizzy, but without flavour, only bitterness. When he closed his eyes, he saw Zim dangling from their arms, and then saw him sitting, tiny and alone, strapped to that metal device, surrounded by white leering walls. There was a fragility that hadn't been there before.

Despite the final victory, the recognition, and the fame, he felt empty. Maybe it was the shock. He thought he'd wake up, that he'd still be that loser, that outcast, and Zim would still be free.

He finished off the glass and poured himself another, thinking of choosing something stronger for his celebration drink.

On his coffee table was a copy of the ZIM files he had produced for the scientists and the military to read from. It was their Irken Bible to start them off: gleaning everything Dib had learned or discovered over the years from fighting or spying or prying from Zim. He flicked through it idly without taking any of it in. He had been over it some ninety nine times when he had been writing it, coming back and forth to edit it, and key in features he had later discovered about his tormenter. The documents had started as simply that: until, over time, his research had evolved into a heavier tome. His annotations were strictly academic, and were not as specialised as the scientists had probably hoped for. Heck, he was a kid when he'd written most of this stuff, most of which just popped out of his head and straight onto the page.

As he flicked through the files it randomly settled on a page:

_Zim seems highly intolerant to water, and his skin seems to suppurate and dissolve when in any kind of contact with rainwater. It could be due to it the water's purities, impurities or chemical compositions, like water is acidic to him, or possibly 'too' alkaline for his biochemistry. _

_I discovered this in class when it started to rain outside. The alien showed immediate discomfort as if his aversion to water and water-based products is possibly inherent to his species. Further research and study is still needed. I've seen that lizard ingest tea, or coffee without any adverse effects. And then he goes and drinks something like Suck Munkey and his mouth projectiles smoke while he writhes in agony._

_I've tried to take a sample from him to test this theory. First and second attempts didn't go so well._

_I pushed him into the swimming pool during swimming class on Thursday the 8th of October. He sizzled, just as I expected him to, but the damn creature obviously doesn't know how to swim. The other kids pulled him out, many of them not seeming to care for all the smoke and blisters Zim was exhibiting. I got suspended from school for two weeks. My father couldn't even bring himself to look at me. One day I'll show them. I'll show them all._

The word 'all' was underscored three times in heavy ink that had blotched. The photocopier had even photocopied the soda stains on the page. He flipped that page over.

_He never seems to eat any of the cafeteria food. He just sits there at the table, pretending to eat the foodstuffs we're served. When the other children started growing suspicious, he started coming in with a lunch box: one of those typical blue lunch pails. When he opens it, he always –_

He turned another, flicking through them faster and faster as if he was searching for something in-between that couldn't quite be seen.

_He doesn't even have real parents. How come no one notices this? Not even Ms. Bitters! And nothing gets past her! I've tried everything! They're clearly robotic! You can even see the seams! And my god he has this thing about germs. And then he goes and basically nearly takes control of the whole class with a zit!_

The pages were a blur.

_I suppose it's really that easy to hijack a Skool bus, and send that thing into space. _

_That equinox!_

_Him and his evil plots!_

_I'll get him!_

_I'll show them!_

The phone took him by surprise, its happy chimes pulverising the calm to splinters.

He let go, and the dog-eared pages settled back into place.

He imagined it to be his sister again, or someone at the lab who had another stupid question to ask when he had specifically told them to read his ZIM files. Then there were the inevitable prank callers he was sure to get. Ridicule came hand-in-hand with fame when one had the spotlight. He was warned in case religious zealots might try to contact him, or people claiming him to be a fraud, and that alien was a hoax.

He rose, shuffled over to the phone and picked it up; eyes narrowing as he lifted the receiver to his ear. There was some vague mutterings on the other end before a long and happy: "Hellllllo?"

Dib waited, but the caller on the other end didn't elaborate. "Who is this?"

"Yeah!" Cried a little voice. "It's ME!"

He gave a longwinded sigh. He had almost turned in the robot as a package deal, as if Gir was some discount extra to go with the alien. _Here's your new toy, and here's the accessory to go with it._

The robot must have realized enough to hide. While Zim's preliminary home was turned inside out, no robot was turned out with it. Dib remained behind the investigation team, failing to declare that Zim had a robot assistant. He wasn't sure why he had held his tongue. Maybe because Gir was too childlike, too naive and confused to be held culpable for the evils Zim had done.

As he had tiptoed in with the researchers, watching them turn over objects as if they were looking for the bones of a serial killer's victims, he kept watch, and persuaded them to look elsewhere whenever they were close to discovering or activating the secret hatch to beneath. Was it selfish, to keep Zim's lair as a personal reward? He had nearly died countless times trying to not only expose him, but to keep him at bay just long enough until the bomb could be defused, until the fires had gone out. He deserved a little on the side, something he could keep for himself. They could keep the spooky, crooked house, the top layer so to speak, the pretension that coated the real lair, and he would keep all below.

Once the media had died down, he would go there, and explore at leisure. He could finally spend time reverse engineering, and slowly mastering, the technology that had always remained out of reach. But Gir... how he had managed to disappear, and for this long without being discovered was a strange turn of events he could not figure out.

Had Zim managed to hide him, before...?

"Is Master there? Is he coming home? The waffles are getting _real_ cold."

"No, Gir. Zim isn't coming home." He employed the same empty, cool, business voice he saved for the journalists and scientists.

"Is he eating waffles with you?" There was the briefest little chuckle. "He has my last marble!"

He should have known by now that trying to explain anything to Gir was like asking a child to recite the Latin alphabet. "No, no, you... you don't understand. He's not here, Gir. He's finally going to answer for everything he's done."

"What?"

Dib put the receiver down. "I'm sorry, Gir."

He tried to imagine how the robot might react, if he would even react at all, as a child suffered grief they could not fully understand. Or the robot might simply go back to whatever he was doing, brush off his immediate concerns, and focus on whatever happened to be in front of him. It was possible he may yet be captured. It wouldn't take much for the robot to bundler into a researcher or scientist still pecking over the Irken's furniture.

Dib opened a bottle of brandy, poured the dark, smooth liquid into the tumbler and swallowed it down until he was sufficiently light-headed. Then he turned on the TV to watch himself on the news. It was strange to watch oneself standing there, smiling and waving while cameras flashed and journalists crowed or barked with questions. He noticed how exceptionally pale he was, how plastic that smile, how phoney that voice. Under his image the headlines read: 'Possible Alien captured by Dib Membrane. No conclusive photographs or footage as of this time. Stay tuned for the latest news.'

He switched it off, the questions buzzing in his head, with the ache of his sister's response, and the pleas of a robot. The brandy suddenly made him feel sick to his stomach.

He expected something more from this glory, but he wasn't sure what. Everything that he had hoped for had come to pass. His father had offered him a seat beside him. The world knew him for what he was, and not what he was before. He was on the front page of magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, and it wasn't long before there were mentions of his exploits on the radio.

So why did it feel like he was starring in a premiere to some cheap movie?

_Is this it? Is this as good as it gets? Will they still remember me tomorrow? As the one who saved the world?_

Reasonably drunk and tired, he approached the balcony outside his bedroom and clutched the iron railing as his mind comfortably swam. The world tilted a few times, and the sky was darkening to a very fine, smooth wine red that made him think of melted rubies. He stood, staring at the descending sun for some time.

There wasn't much evidence to suggest a fight had even happened except for the burn marks on the tiling of his roof, on the bedroom floor and kitchen. The leavings of their final battle carried the stale scent of plasma fumes and the stink of burnt skin amidst scorched clothing.

It hadn't been the glorious finale he had often dreamt of.

Splashes of red and green had dried upon the tiling, or had soaked through the floor and carpets.

He tried to shake the wooziness from his head. They had carried their hate around, like some everlasting memento.

He looked at his hands, hands that had closed around Zim's throat. The moment had come, that second of opportunity to finally hold that power over him, and he'd done what any desperate man would do.

Something had to come from it; something to finally end the eternal carousel.

But there had been a change between them at the very last. When it had just been the two of them, caught in each other's grip: without the pretension of their tech and competitions, when there was no more pomposity, no more walls.

He ducked under the bedcovers still wearing his jacket and outdoor clothing, having just enough sense to kick off his boots. From this height he could still smell the fusion vapour, so he turned over, and could still smell it.

When he shut his eyes, he thought sleep would be instant; a well-earned rest after a long day of celebration should come easy. But upon shutting his eyes, he saw his tiny Irken being dragged by a wall of men in white coats, and saw him again, alone and frail on a little metal stool that held him in place, gaunt frame deprived of its bold, coloured uniform.

Dib turned over and turned over under the sheets, throwing out his jacket to get comfortable. The alcohol made scenes run together, the memories melding until he could not tell which was when. Sometimes he was within the confines of a warm, humming alien base. Other times he would be dunking Zim underwater to hear the hissing of his skin as one green arm frantically made to grab something to keep from going under. Finally, as exhaustion pulled him down, as his eyelids closed and the dreams began to take him, he saw the little figure posed on that little metal stool, looking out from wide and frightened eyes.

_This is what I wanted._ He thought. _This is what I've always wanted._

* * *

**Dib07: **Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this! If you wanna send some love about this story, don't be afraid to post a review, a comment, a like! I listen to everyone, and honestly all I wanna do is talk about Zim! (I never tire of his character)! Anyway, see you next time!


	3. Price to Play

**Debacle (R)**** \- Subject Zim**

_**Summary: **_

_All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he always wanted. When his wish comes true however, not everything falls so comfortably into place._

_**Disclaimer:**_

_I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine. _

_This is from the old story **Debacle **which I rewrote awhile ago. You can read it as it is, and needs nothing else to accompany it. ^-^ _

_**Warnings:**_

_Dark themes throughout. Some chapters carry a hefty** R** warning._

* * *

**Dib07: **Thank you so much for the reviews! You have no idea how much this motivates me! After the last chapter I wasn't sure how much interest this story would have, especially due to its dark and raw nature that will be coming up, and I have to say I am more than exhilarated by the amazing response! I would also like to shower **Flipingoutfan** aka **HaleyRiler** for the fanart on tumblr! It is simply incredible, I love Zim's expression, you captured him perfectly and it is a true gift! You worked hard, and I can't get over it! So, urm here we go!

**Guest **

I hope you enjoy! Your feedback means the world to me!

**Guest**

Thank you so much! I am bouncing!

* * *

**Price to Play**

Behind him came the eternal clicking and clacking of a clock tacked to the topmost part of the featureless wall. It was the only furnishing in the spaces of white and grey, save for the metal contraption he was strapped to, the dark windows looking into his world, and the wearisome, primeval machine blipping and bleeping at his side.

_Tick tock. Tick tock. Blip bleep._

He opened his eyes wearily, bony limbs sporadically shivering or rattling from the airy coolness that kept brushing over his skin. Reaffirming the blank walls and the blank blemishes of the observation screens put new cracks and dents in his otherwise fragile hopes. They had all gone home, unless the screen was purposely darkened so that he could not see who remained, watching.

The surveillance camera was the only other deviation in the room's plain and intimidating vacuity. It stared back with its little green light, its black lens filled with his anxious stare.

There was a plate of venting high up on each wall, and before him was the door that had frequently spilled out men in hazmat suits with their cryptic tools. His eyes compulsively settled on the shiny steel door as he speculated on what might be on the other side of it, and how far freedom might be. It might be just on the other side, or down a corridor with nothing else in his way.

He really needed to pee.

The invader looked dubiously to the ceiling looming down from above, as if half expecting the Armada to come blasting through it and pull him out.

Lean, pale green toes and claws flexed in the cool, ventilated air, the lack of fabric pressing around the digits an unwelcome and unfamiliar sensation.

Trying to squeeze his wrists out of the restraints offered the same consequences as before: his hands simultaneously burning and tingling from his previous efforts, the rub marks having darkened with bloody stains, the flesh breaking and peeling as the skin came away. His claws prickled from the lack of circulation and his feet were alternatively numb, cold or fiery with tingles and sparks.

He glanced down to re-acknowledge the white plastic tag secured around his ankle, encoded with a registration number and the lab name 'A01,' and for twenty minutes he rattled and twisted and beat himself against the bonds, causing the metal of the chair-platform to shake and creak. The PAK clunked and whirred with equal protesting.

Breathing hard, sweat forming and then dripping down his pointed chin and pinched forehead, he remained in that lastingly uncomfortable position with legs slightly spread apart. Trying to bend forwards against the nylon strap to escape the cramp of sitting in one place for so long did nothing to relieve the agony. The only thing that broke the monotonous pain was the occasional spurt of shivering.

Tick tock clacked the clock.

Blip bleep went the monitoring machine.

His antennae could only listen to the reaching silence beyond these irritating rhythms, save for the wish-washing hum of his PAK and the steady, cold breath of the ventilation. The room stank of his sweat, air purification, and the synthetic coldness of all things manmade.

Hard, shiny eyes of fuchsia settled on the camera and its blinking green light.

From the darkest prescient, he could feel them watching behind the dark glass, like one could feel a bad dream on the rise.

Events prior to his capture flashed to the forefront of his mind when there was very little else to dwell on, and he strained against the cuffs with renewed desperation as pain shot up and down his arms. Rivulets of dark bottle green dripped down the steel pointed armrest to its holding strut, and then to the metal seat beneath. Dabs of green were simultaneously flecked or dotted on his skinny thighs, the pale silvery floor and the screen of the monitoring unit.

Since the chair/table/thing was bolted to the floor, no amount of struggling or thrashing could unearth it from its central point, but this never stopped him from trying.

"Get me out of here! I command you! Any of you! You'll rue the day! I'll... I'll get you all for this! Even if it means coming to every little house or privy or whatever it is you call homes..."

Zim rattled to a stop, chest toiling with hard, thirsty breaths, oily sweat coating his skull and the skin of his collarbone.

His mind would sooner suppurate from tedium at this rate. Sitting here for hours was enough of a torture for an intelligent being that thrived on mental stimulation and activity.

His bladder was going to burst, but letting go, and fouling the seat he was cuffed to was more appalling, even if it might relieve him of immediate discomfort.

Dethroning him of his uniform was perhaps his greatest loss after capture. It removed him of all dignity and distinction, dissolving his honour with the immediate removal of his belongings - belongings that signified strength as much as integrity. Without them he felt significantly smaller and significantly vulnerable. He had always been a vain and private creature who went to great lengths to make sure he looked his best, and that his uniform was without creases or wrinkles. It was part of him, exemplified him...

He grunted, trying to shift over to get comfortable, and couldn't. He felt the warmth budding between his legs.

_Please, no! No!_

He could not bring his knee any closer to hold it in no more than he could hide the atrocity of the act. Dark yellow swelled between his loins before it ran off the seat and down the metal legs to the floor. He squeaked, staring at the amber liquid as it continued to swell and pool and run, suffusing the air with the strong stink of ammonia.

The escaping liquid was hot against the icy coolness of his thighs, and this embarrassment made warm flushes rise beneath his glassy eyes. Drip by drip, amber liquid trickled off the sharp edge, intermingling with the tick tocking of the wall clock and the blip blipping of the little computer monitor. Trickles of it went down his left knee, pooling in the webs of his toes before dripping off them too.

-x-

He woke with a start; eyes flying open when he felt something heavy and solid land on his chest. His mind scrabbled to the fore, believing that Zim had broken out and had finally come for him.

Shiny, inquisitive cyan circles looked back from the dark, and the little robot put a hand to its mouth to try and suppress the giggles.

Dib propped himself up on his elbows, scythe of hair coming to dangle before his eyes as he took a breath to try and ease the ensuring floods of panic. "Am I still dreaming?" He ran a hand over his eyes and face, feeling the sweat there.

"I guess so." Came the gentle sing-song voice of the robot.

He reached for his glasses on the bedside drawer and slipped them on.

Gir lifted a hand in a wave. "Morning!" He chirped.

Dib begrudgingly looked to the bedside clock to confirm the accuracy of the robot's announcement. It _was_ morning, by insomniac standards. It was three o'clock.

"You're not supposed to be here." He stared, blinking, wide eyed at the apparition.

Gir just continued smiling as if there was nothing abnormal or significant about his visit. Dib barrelled him aside by tossing back the covers and leapt to the window, parting the curtains with a jerk. The roads were deceptively quiet and empty, vacant of sirens and cop cars, though he half believed they were still on their way, and would surround the house given enough time.

He turned to see the robot watching him from the bedcovers that had fallen over his head. "You gotta go back! No one can see you, understand! I don't want you here!"

"Why?"

"Just go away! Go back to wherever you came from!"

"Can I stay with you?"

"What? No! You can't!" He reluctantly turned from the window, ears tuned to the sirens he was certain he'd hear. He flung his arms wide, hoping to intimidate and herd out the stubborn robot from his domicile. Gir only laughed that tinny, joyful laugh, and clapped his hands as if he was watching a theatrical spectacle put on especially for him. "You think this is funny, do you?" He took the robot's slim and surprisingly warm hand in his and helped to encourage him down from the bed. Gir hit the floor with a bit of a thud but then happily followed the human as Dib led him across the dark landing and down the stairs.

He slid back the bolts, unlocked the door and opened it to a cold and starless night. Without any fanfare he pushed Gir out onto the porch and slammed the door shut, sliding back the bolts and locks before trudging up the stairs with a hand anchoring him to the banister rail. He worked his way to the top, feet shuffling forwards, and when he entered his bedroom, Gir was waiting on the bed with that same sunny smile.

"What? But how did...?" His eyes flashed to the open window.

"Your bed is bouncy!" And he started to jump up and down it, his metal weight causing the springs and wood of the bed to violently creak and squeak.

"No! Stop that! You'll break it!"

Gir stopped, coming to land with a final plonk.

"I don't want you here, understand? Do you want to get captured and torn apart?"

The roboparents were currently being cut up, and broken down into categorical lumps and parts. Though they had started to break down anyway over the years, with Zim depending on them less and less, they had still erupted from their side-rooms like sentries and attacked the investigation team. Russ ended up with a fractured arm, and Gus had been upended to lie, dazed and concussed, but Carlson had pushed forwards and filled both the robots with lead. Robo-mom still gave that ghastly smile even with her head split open to emit sparks and wires, her voice box giving the same sermon on a loop: "By Golly, what a mess! Better fix you upppp!" Until Carlson shot the cord in the serving drone's neck, severing the head from the body to finally shut it up.

"Like on TV?"

"No, not like..." He stopped, pawing around his glasses to massage his overtired eyes. Then he gave the robot's succinct statement a second thought. What had he seen being broadcasted on the numerous computer screens down below in a lair still humming with alien activity? Dib drew his hand away. Maybe Gir had been sitting watching the usual humdrum of cartoons, and was none the wiser. It was a mistake to expect anything from him.

Gir pulled out a weapon from somewhere behind him like magic. "What's this?"

Dib watched, the colour draining from his cheeks as he watched the little robot wave it up and down in one hand. It was a beautiful weapon of black and white, the alloys and carbon a deep, pulsing blue that wavered and rippled like the shadowy waves of the ocean. Its muzzle was blackened by the fusion it had blown out.

"Gir! Drop it!"

Gir obeyed instantly, and dropped the weapon to the bed sheets. Perhaps his obedience was no fluke, and that Zim had invented some sort of fail-safe command should the robot pick up something harmful or hazardous.

He came over and swiped it before the robot had second thoughts, but it was a weight he wasn't ready for. The fusion weapon was salvation, something to safely hide behind; a tool to condemn the threat and end his misery and break the chain. It had also become an icon of capabilities, endings and dark roads he hadn't fully seen to comprehend.

The weapon was too heavy to be held one handed. He remembered fighting against steel webs to snatch it, and the sudden, delirious feeling when he had clawed it in sweaty hands, and he remembered the taste of power when he swung it round to face his enemy.

He deposited it away in a drawer, throwing out clothes to make it fit, and then throwing clothes on top of it to hide it. The sudden strain of rushing to acquire the gun from a deranged childlike robot had caused the pain to resurface, and he clutched his side. Hiding it to an almost automatic degree had been nothing short of unbearable. There was nothing mendacious in revealing it, and he could have gone to his father, or even to Dr. Williams to have them treat it, but he was also aware of Carlson's all-seeing eye, and what he might think of the PAK-incurred injury, and what he might do: perhaps cast him into a room too, and examine him for ways that might benefit and strengthen the military.

Survivalist's paranoia overrode his pragmatism sometimes, but after long tireless years trying to outlive and outlast a battle-hungry alien monster, there was little he could do to slacken his wary suspicions.

"You're leaking." Exclaimed the robot.

Dib looked down to where the robot was pointing. Crimson had appeared as dots on the carpet at his feet, and as he watched, more droplets appeared. Cursing, he threw off his flannel pj top to see the bright scarlet that was slowly saturating the layers of gauze.

Turning his back on Gir and leaving his blood-spotted top on the carpet, he hurried to the bathroom and ripped a towel off the rack to wrap around his midsection. His bare foot connected with a porcelain soap dish that had fallen during the fight and it bounced across the tiled flooring.

He knelt on the floor, holding the towel to the injury, staring without seeing anything. He heard the tinny chimes of metal feet and slowly turned to see Gir standing in the doorway, looking in on him with something that could have been worry. His appearance was still something of a surprise – an alien construct peering around his very ordinary home.

"You know you can't stay here, Gir. I can't hide you."

The robot opened his chassis and presented the saggy and wrinkly green doggie outfit. As if defying Dib's assertions, he stepped into it, zipping up the suit. The dog's mix-matched eyes stared back.

-x-

"The bone structure is surprisingly normal." Dr. Williams stood before his small group of colleagues before a screen, the projector throwing the alien's torso x-ray on the whiteboard. They were the privileged first to be looking inside the creature besides Dib who had used field tools at the time, but they did not act terribly privileged or even that fascinated.

They interrupted him at every opportunity, with some of them theorizing idiotic fantasies of their own. Williams would point with his accompanying ruler and re-direct their attention to a specific feature or noteworthy attribute to the creature's unusual structure time and time again before another banal question would interrupt him.

"The subject appears to have a strong singular tibia without the supporting fibula, as if evolution or selective development has refined its skeletal composition. It has fewer ribs, as if we are looking at a minimalist's approach to bone structure. We have a pelvis, we have the humerus and radius but again without the ulna. The vertebrae and skull are similar to ours, but the bone density remains an anomaly until we do a biopsy."

Some of the scientists leaned forward a little in their seats; others hung back, still making up their minds.

"See here, and here?" Williams slapped the point of his ruler at specific places. "Obvious signs of injury and repair. The bone hasn't fused so smoothly or perfectly, allowing bumps to form. This creature may heal successfully upon injury, perhaps faster than we can, as Dib claims, but the scarring remains of past traumas." He hit the button for the projector and another image flashed forward. "The sternum has been broken in two different places. The site of injury has fused, but the line where the cracks appear remains." He hit the button again. "Take a look at the spine. Here we can see two large vertical holes in the thoracic and lumbar column. There are slight deviations in the bone formation as protrusions around the site. This could be an abnormality, an evolutionary trait, or the body's accumulative response to the machine welded there."

As per usual, Torrent interrupted as if he could not wait a millisecond for his turn to speak. "What about its little clothes? Was there anything useful in its personal affects?"

"Well, there was an item in its glove." Williams turned to look at him, lifting his lip in an annoyed smile.

"Fucking gloves! It wears fucking gloves and booties! I can't believe...!" Torrent stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Williams watching him coolly.

"We have put the articles of clothing in a containment room for further study." He said for the benefit of the others who had yet to learn this. "As for the item found, it was a pink marble."

"Have you scanned it for weaponry?" Carlson had refrained from sitting down during the session, and had his hands working into the backrest of the chair before him. His hands looked like old, calloused talons of a vulture.

"It's a plain, common marble, most likely from an ordinary toy store." Williams said in the chance this would end the discussion about the marble in its entirety.

"And the clothing itself? Anything unusual?" Carlson's eyes sunk into his like daggers. Wherever Williams went, he could not escape his insatiable and hungry scrutiny.

"It was stretchy. And warm, like thermals." He answered, "And hardy, quite tough to damage. Torrent here tried to poke a needle through the material. The needle couldn't penetrate it." He presented them with a short video of the scientists Ben and Rick holding up the pink attire and examining it as if it was some strange and cryptic archaeological artefact. Giving them a few more moments to take in the video, Williams clicked it off.

"And this... marble? What did A01 intend to do with it?" Clapped the abrasive voice of the sergeant.

"Why don't you ask it?" Williams said, retaining that patient smile, ruler poised, ready to continue.

Then Ben started. "I can't believe it! We have a real alien! I never would have thought..."

"Oh, it's quite certain we have something authentic, yes," Williams replied mildly, "although the term 'alien' is up for debate. What is an alien, Torrent?" He winced a second later, wishing he hadn't asked _him_ of all people to elaborate.

"Something that flies around in flying saucers." Came his first-rate answer.

There was a hoot of laughter from the others. Williams ignored them and continued in his mild and patient voice, "An 'alien' is a creature that is foreign to our world. Its basic compounds may be different, such as its biological nature and behaviour. It's all to do with genetics, Torrent: something that has had to live under a different sun, on a different planet, with a different atmosphere and a different food chain. That is an alien by definition and not by ambiguity."

"Whatever." Torrent said, arms folded.

Carlson was meanwhile looking at the images of the subject's interior with a studious and disgruntled air, his lower lip poking out. Lately he had been given to sucking on cocktail sticks, much to the annoyance of the others.

The insides of the 'alien' looked much more ordinary than they had been expecting, and the sergeant had hoped to see something a little less ordinary than blood, bones and organs.

Torrent said to no one in particular. "Professor Membrane's son has been dealing with this 'thing' all these years! Who knows if it stayed in any one location, and didn't spawn somewhere else?"

"Just remove that PAK device from the creature!" Cut in Carlson.

"Yes, but how is it attached? And why? Is it an enhancement? An integral cybergenetic implant?" Conferred Williams.

The door burst wide, and the scientists jumped from their seats. "Forgive me! I am late!" Called the professor, swinging the door at his heels so that it explosively slammed shut behind him. "I hope I did not disturb you all! Continue, Doctor Williams!" He chose a chair near the back row and made a fuss getting into it.

"Yes, thank you professor for joining us. We're just going over the x-rays we've taken earlier today. We managed to scan its soft tissue too."

"It squealed." Torrent nudged Ben beside him. "As if the MRI was going to attack it."

"Torrent, please." Williams sighed, looking less composed and more frazzled every time his inferior had to interrupt or throw out an incompetent comment or two. "We're all excited and nervous respectively. This is a historic event that people will talk about for years to come, but it is not the arrival or the 'knowing' of the alien that should captivate us. It's what we can learn from it. Now." He clicked a button, and the projector threw up a new image of the alien's internal organs. "What we see is a slight aberration of biological formation. The subject has a heart, two lungs, and what appears to be a stomach and intestines. But there seems to be no liver, no spleen, no pancreas or kidneys."

"Where's the penis?"

Williams let out another angry sigh. "Torrent."

"I'm serious!" His remark earned a few additional giggles from his peers. "How do we know if the thing's even 'male?' You've all seen the slit between its legs, right?"

"What if it's laid eggs all over the city?" Ben looked pale.

"Please! You're all being very childish!" Williams lowered the ruler, looking from one unruly scientist to the next while Carlson stood amongst them, sucking on his cocktail stick. "You should all be apologizing to the professor and the sergeant for your behaviour, especially you Torrent! We are under a lot of pressure to exact results," _before Carlson decides to bulldoze the place,_ "and you are not helping!"

"Sorry." Torrent said, pretending to look sheepish.

"It's quite alright." The professor wasn't even paying attention, and ignored the screen of A01's internals that would otherwise have made a xenologist's jaw drop. He was busy adjusting and flattening out the remotest of wrinkles on his labcoat sleeve before assessing his digital watch for the twentieth time.

"As for the blood sample," Dr. Williams continued, trying to regain their attention by holding up a very tiny vial of sloshing green, "We'll need to extract as many of these samples as we can, preferably before the next few trials. So far as we know, this creature isn't carrying any diseases known to us, but the computer is still crunching on data, and I suspect more will be revealed to us in time."

"What about this piece of hardware?" Carlson spat out his soggy and chewed cocktail stick and replaced it for a new one. "It's a ticking time bomb for all we know!"

"That still remains our greatest unknown variable. Professor?"

The man looked up suddenly as if he wasn't part of the discussion. "Oh yes! Of course!" He stood up to address the assemblage of men in fellow white coats. He hit a near-seamless button within the material of his collar and a three dimensional image popped up before them. It was the blurry image of the PAK the giant MRI had taken. All you could see was a metal oval dome, but the edges were fuzzy, including the main structure. Nothing was revealed inside, as opposed to the labyrinths of data visually exposed from any other machine or device that was scanned in the same way. "See here? The strange metal casing seems to protect it from the imaging devices, as though it is shielding the interior from external tampering! I am not surprised. This is something truly sophisticated!"

During the session, Carlson's expression had hardly changed, but now he looked up, one eye widening slightly, his bushy greyish eyebrows curving into a wedged formation.

The professor hit his invisible button and the blurry image of the PAK disappeared. "We are the pioneers of delving into the constitution of something truly alien for the first time in history! And it might just be our one and only opportunity! I suggest we focus more on simply studying it, and learn what it has to teach us! Cracking it open may spell doom for us all! Or nothing may even happen!"

There was no round of applause. They merely looked at the esteemed professor with something bordering on apathy. "You _do_ realize there's an Armada coming, don't you?" Carlson spat out his cocktail stick. His eyes flickered to Williams even though he was addressing the professor. "Who knows how long we have until more of these..._ things_... arrive. The military must be ready to defend humanity!"

"But this is a living creature."

"Just whose side are you on?" Carlson spun round to the professor, causing the other colleagues to flinch.

"The side of science!" The professor spoke with that same easy and casual tone. He didn't step down, or even flinch. "You may have jurisdiction over our funding and resources; and you may even use brute force if it comes to it! But what you don't have is us! You can take Zim away, but if you do, you'll have no one qualified to study him! We hold more cards than you realize!" No one spoke in the growing silence. Carlson was suddenly beetroot red in the neck and cheeks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish that had ended up on dry land. His fists were clenching, the knuckles whiter than ice.

"Gentlemen." Dr. Williams stepped forwards, his soft voice doing little to break the ice that had so suddenly formed, but his voice at least seemed to torpedo and henceforth shatter Carlson's rising aggression, and what he might have done in that moment. "Read over Dib Membrane's files again. You never know. We might find something that'll help us, come the morning."

At once the men started grabbing their things and quickly leaving through the door. Carlson pushed some of them out of the way as he stormed out, slamming Torrent against the wall of the corridor as he went.

-x-

He watched the man bend down into the steel chair to sit before a tiny steel table, but the look on his face suggested that he had drawn the short straw. The glass of the observatory was lit up, and a huddle of men were there again, their faces a united mask of indifference. They would close round each other, separate, and then huddle again, usually in motion until the sessions began.

The human before him, with a tiny button for a nose, a weak chin and wonky wire-framed glasses, coughed into his hand. He was four feet away from the bound captive strapped to the chair-platform.

_Tick tock. Blip bleep._

The man looked at the files he had brought with him. "For the record of the archives, this is a video and audio recording of the subject A01. This is session number two."

Zim briefly observed the slim stack of paper files before flicking his eyes back up at the human. A cold smile spread over his countenance like a darkened shadow, making the lines under his eyes appear deeper.

The man couldn't even look at him as he addressed the first question. "Can you understand me?"

Zim's smile only sharpened. "Not if I don't want to."

"I am going to ask a series of questions. You may answer to the best of your ability." His tone was hesitant, his eyes glued to the paper in his trembling hands. "A book is to reading as a fork is to, a) drawing, or b) writing, c) stirring, d) eating, or is it..."

"Burning, obviously." He pulled vainly against the wrist-cuffs. "Next question!"

The man coughed again, and looked, not to the camera, but behind him at his fellow colleagues huddled behind the observation screen. The professor made a gesture for him to continue.

The scientist coughed again to clear his throat. "Which number should come next in the pattern? 37, 34, 31, 28?"

"25! What's wrong with you?"

The man started to stutter. "Which of the f-following can be arranged into a 5 letter English w-word? a) HRGST, b) RILSA, c) TOOMT, d) WQRGS?"

"B and C."

The man rummaged in a bag for a moment and brought out many coloured 3D shapes, such as the triangle, cylinder, hexagon and cone. "Now, if you could just name all the shapes, and what colours they represent."

"What do I get if I cooperate?"

The door burst open and a man in military fatigues came marching over carrying a clear and translucent bottle. Zim understood the look in the man's set and iron face and braced against the back of his metal chair, eyes flashing to the bottle he held in one vein-throbbing hand. The scientist in the chair turned slowly to say something, and Carlson cast him from the seat by grabbing his arm and throwing him out of it. Disregarding the question sheets, chair and desk, Carlson kicked aside whatever was in the way while the scientist scrabbled for the exit. In the observation room the men in white coats were also scrabbling around. An alarm was activated, but Carlson seemed deaf to it.

"Carlson! This is not what we agreed! We need more time!" Came the commanding voice of the professor booming through the intercom. "Step away from Zim immediately!"

Carlson did not turn round to lay eyes on the team behind him, or even to stop to listen. His eyes, small and narrowed, lingered on glittery crimson that seemed to drink in his reflection and the whites of the room enclosing them. He kept his distance, hands clenching the neck of the bottle.

The door was opening, letting the scientist scurry out, and squeezing through a mob of white coats trying to get in, but the door slammed shut before they could squeeze through, and Carlson finally turned round so that the professor could see the remote device in his hand from the observatory window.

Satisfied that he was alone with the creature, he set the remote down on the steel table, enjoying the compulsive glances A01 was giving it, and the heightened pulses speeding along the ECG's monitoring screen. "You are smart enough to withhold information, information we need. You are a threat, and I must deal with it."

"Ahuh." Zim dropped his head back slightly against the metal of his chair. His thin smile was whimsical. "Now buzz off and join the back of the queue, would you? I have shapes to name."

The sergeant started to heavily pace, making sure to walk a full circle around the metal platform. When he was behind the creature, and temporarily out of its periphery, the alien seemed to grow agitated, and lose some of that carefully crafted composure. "Why are you here?"

He stopped in front of him again. Zim cocked his head, the left side of his lips twisting into a wince. "You pigs threw me into a crate and then strapped me down to this chair! How else do you think I got here?"

The alarm continued to reverberate throughout the chamber, accompanied by the dins of the men pounding on other side of the door. The lights, once an overly bright and superficial white, turned to an ominous and daunting red that ghostly pulsed over them, creating shadows on Carlson's face and caves under his eyes.

"Carlson!" Boomed the intercom, "Open the door this instant!"

Zim looked up to see Dib standing close to the observation window looking down at him, a hand pressed to the glass. The infuriating apathy on that boy's face was slowly changing, his eyebrows lifting in that curious way as if he was hinging on a smile.

Carlson's grunt grated on his antennae. "You play those scientists for fools. Every time those buffoons ask you something, you change your story. You can fuck with them all day, but you don't fuck with me." He drew closer, holding up the bottle. "Why are you here?"

Zim's pinkish shiny orbs darted to the bottle in his hand, then back to Carlson. His eyes seemed to darken and simultaneously flicker, as if they were burning inside. "Isn't it obvious? I'm here to save the Armada a job or two!"

"You came by ship." He paced again, this time staying directly behind Zim who struggled to look round to keep him in his periphery. He made sure to slosh around the contents of the bottle, and every time there was no much as a swish the pings and pongs from the monitoring machine escalated tenfold. "We have it. What you call a 'Voot Runner,' according to this Dib Membrane."

"Oooh t-that?" Uncertainty seemed to dent the alien's voice, "That's urm... a model. I bought it! Off of... some pig man." His words lurched to a halt as a hand grabbed his antennae, pulling them taut through calloused fingers. His scream seemed to ping off the walls. The beats and pulses barely held singular notes.

"You can run circles around these idiots all day, and they'll happily oblige. Let's just say they are hundreds or millions of you out there, just waiting to pounce on us! You have technology greater than our own, and I shall pluck it out of you!"

"L-Let go! Let GO!"

Carlson tightened his fingers around the malleable protuberances, feeling them tighten in turn and try to flex like cords of muscle. The creature was vocal with screams that filled the chamber and temporarily drowned the alarms.

He let go, and A01 gratefully sunk down into the metal platform, chest heaving, eyes wide with pain. Then he heard the steady squeak of Carlson unwinding the bottle cap before casting it aside.

Almost leisurely, Carlson came round to his right side, tilted the plastic neck of the bottle and let the drip-drip of water settle on Zim's bare thigh.

The creature's reaction was instant. Antennae slightly crooked, they managed to lift in surprise as he tried to shove himself away, only to rattle and creak against his fetters. "I have come across many who were defiant. They swore they would keep their secrets. That they wouldn't break. That they could rise above whatever pain I could inflict. But words are just words. Pain is inescapable; pain is constant until I let it be otherwise. You'll bend beneath it soon enough, just like any man or beast. I recognise that look in your eyes. You know what it means to inflict pain on others. And how it'll end."

He kept the bottle in the same angle as water cascaded steadily over Zim's leg, with excess splashes running down a scrawny knee cap then to his clawed and tiny foot. "No! No stop it!"

"Who would have thought how effective water is for torture, even for those who don't react to it like you do. Waterboarding is just one example, another is what you're experiencing now, what they call 'Chinese water torture' in which cold water is slowly dripped onto the scalp, or face for days or even weeks at a time."

With his ankles bound he could only jerk his leg left or right, and Carlson didn't even adjust the water's trajectory. If it didn't land on the exact place it started another serration that incurred steam and pain as flesh oozed, bubbled and suppurated. Wherever he yanked himself he was met by the same imprisonment, fastened in place without escape. The resulting screams thundered through the chamber as much as through the sergeant's head.

Arms were suddenly upon Carlson.

"Unhand me! You have no right!" He elbowed one of them, and Torrent broke off, holding his nose. Williams was trying to say something to him, but all he could hear were the auditory screams of the creature as his ears rang like church bells. They were dragging him back to the door, away from the sudden noxious smells of boiling flesh. He tried throwing them off his back, but once he fought one or two off him, three more grappled him back down.

They managed to drag him through the door when he burst free of them. The scientists staggered away, all of them coughing and panting as if they had jointly carried a boulder. He turned to Williams and he and the others scattered away like fretful birds under a cat's shadow.

"I will shut this place down!" He hollered, "And apprehend the lot of you for obstructing justice!"

When he turned, he came upon the obstruction of the professor who stood before the door to the chamber. He stood quietly, arms at his sides, as immovable as a mountain. "Are you quite finished, sergeant?" He asked. There was a telltale tremor in his voice.

"How dare you speak to me like that! You can't treat me like..."

"Now, now. Let me finish." He dipped his head down a moment as if to compose himself. When he looked back up, his voice was cheery and amiable again. "We are both after the same thing! Progress! But to get there we must work together, and to not jump the gun, so to speak."

"I do not need to collaborate with you or the children you have working here!"

The professor gestured to another door leading to the main atrium. "Let's discuss this in private. I have something to offer you that may be worth your time." Then he turned to Williams. "See to Zim. I will be back shortly."

-x-

The professor poured Carlson a drink before pouring one for himself. The rich amber liquid sloshed into each crystal schooner. Though Carlson had been offered to sit down on one of the mahogany and red velvet chairs, he remained pacing as he looked without admiring the gelded frames encapsulating the achievements in the professor's life.

"I perfectly understand what's at stake." The professor settled his untouched schooner on the shiny surface of the cherry wood table. "But he isn't going anywhere anytime soon. The world can breathe a sigh of relief, and so can we."

The sergeant finished his whiskey in one rough gulp. "My father once told me that 'war is every man's torment.' It took me a long time to realize what he meant. Everyone can fight, but not everyone can win." He stopped to settle the crystal schooner on the table so that he could grab the whiskey bottle and pour himself another tall measure. "My father served in the Afghanistan war of 2889, fighting the enemy in a war-torn and hostile land. He did what he was trained to do, but it wasn't enough. Nothing can really prepare you out there when faced with the unknown. You must anticipate, and strike first. War is unforgiving, war is uncompromising. Our very survival as a species is at stake, and we must react accordingly to this alien threat in order to protect humanity! Think of what it could mean if we have alien tech at our disposal. We may never need to fear our enemies again!"

"But at what cost?" The professor continued to stare at his glass of whiskey as if it was a curious and deadly poison.

"There is no cost! Only to take what is rightfully ours. We are a powerful nation, Mr. Membrane, and we must stay ahead of our enemies, whether they are from the stars or not."

"Don't you wish to know where he came from? How another intelligent being thinks, and solves problems? I had hopes for a Lucas Tower trial to see if..."

"No." He slammed a hand on the table, causing the crystal schooners to chink and ring. "We do not know how capable this threat is! Each day grants this creature more time and more opportunities to overpower us! Now get to the point! What is it you can possibly offer me?"

"Goodwill between us. You are after the alien's tech and miraculous healing abilities, both of which I believe are connected. Time is all that I ask for in return! We will begin the examination trials of these 'regenerative' capabilities tomorrow. How does that sound?"

"Do not even think of fooling me, professor." His voice was cold. "You may think I have glossed over those ZIM files your boy wrote, but I remember every word. That thing on its back - PAK – or however Dib spells it, _can_ be removed. Your son stated that he apparently grabbed the device when it had fallen off the creature's back. He further states that after a period of time the creature begins to deteriorate."

"My son can be a little headstrong with his choice of words, and he sometimes gets carried away..."

"Begin the trials first thing tomorrow!"

"Not until Zim has had something to eat. Hydration is also necessary for every living..." The sergeant knocked the crystal schooner flying, spraying the wall with expensive alcohol, and was suddenly in his face, those dark silvery eyes filling his vision. There was a knock on the door, and the sergeant hurriedly stepped away just as the door opened.

Williams stuck his head in. "Is everything alright? I heard a crash."

"Everything's fine. The sergeant was just seeing himself out." The professor swept his goggles to the dripping whiskey, but Carlson was already storming through the door, Williams just managing to avoid being shoved or thrown aside in time.

He came to Membrane's side while the professor stood frozen to the spot. "How did it go?"

"As much as I imagined it would. And Zim?"

"Keep yourself distant from it, professor. I realize A01's intelligence and uniqueness intrigues you, but you and I both know that science cannot dally. Humanity is depending on us. We are the first line of defence for pretty much everything. Medicine. Disease control. Agricultural development."

The professor murmured assent as if this was his first time discovering what they did. "When it comes to science, there is discovery and sacrifice, to build a better world. I have always believed that. Never doubt me, Williams, or the work at hand. But delaying Carlson's agenda will not be easy. He only wants Zim's tech for war, to destroy the world we are trying to protect."

-x-

He solemnly gazed at the offerings before him, all neatly arranged on a low trolley that literally could not fit anymore on it. There were plates full of dripping raw meats, greasy cooked meats, a perfect melon, another dish of grapes, or olives, bread and salamis and just about every chocolate snack you could imagine. There were fruits from just about every region, alongside different vegetables and sea food. Wedged between the heaving offerings were cartons of milk, lactose-intolerant milk or juice, or spring water.

The only utensil they had given him was a plastic spoon.

He was allowed the freedom to move around in this airy, cold and vacant room after they first removed the monitoring machine. When they had scurried away again, leaving him to survey the glut of food before him, the restraints holding him to the platform snapped free, and he was able to lift his arms and stiffly rotate stiff wrists. His hands were numbed, cold blocks, and when circulation started to kick in, his claws may as well have been dipped in fire. He went to lift himself from the metal throne, but his legs were pillars of ice, and he slid off the seat and landed face-first on the cold floor. He could not move for the cramps, his muscles trembling and seizing as he tried to stretch legs that wouldn't bend or flex.

While he sat, nursing his left leg and then his right by massaging the rigid muscles with rigid claws, he cast hateful eyes at the camera before reacquainting himself with the foodstuffs beyond him. It was the loud colour of the food that hurt his eyes – so used was he to surveying a bleached, insipid room. He was attracted to the coppery redness of the apples, and the deep, rich sorrels of the chocolate. Beside the purple and pearly blue melting ice-cream and cake was a sumptuous mix of cookies and golden pancakes. The smell of these edibles made saliva rush to his mouth.

He attempted to stand. The muck from his pee irritated his skin and he couldn't help but scratch at those places, and his right thigh was padded with soft gauze. Williams had settled a pad over the cavity in his thigh beforehand even when flesh simply stuck to it, and he wrapped gauze over the padding before securing it with medical tape. He had screamed at the white haired man because he had anticipated more pain, and had not expected 'help' in any form, and when it was given, he stared, wide-eyed, shivering when he could no longer predict them as thoroughly as before.

Once he was crookedly standing, he closed his legs together, hands rubbing his arms to try and encourage some warmth into them. "Something to wear would be appreciated!" He snapped at the overhead windows.

A package popped out from one of the walls. By the time he had spun round to look, the slot had seamlessly closed up again. Ignoring the package, he limped over to the wall and tried to feel for the opening with his claws. Something blasted into him – cold air into his antenna from the wall. He shrieked and fell back, just catching the tiny piping as it slid back into the overall whiteness of the wall.

"We don't like you doing that, A01." Said a voice from the intercom. "Stay away from the walls at all times."

"You can't threaten me!" His voice fell flat against the walls, his squeal of rage sounding more hysterical and desperate. He peered down at the package, his arms wrapped about bony and trembling shoulders. Gradually bending his knees, he tore the package open to pluck out a pale hospital-type gown with a parting at the back. He snorted at it, allowing the flimsy cream material to dangle from shivering claws. It was a grotesque offering, and was two sizes too big. "This is horrible! I'm not wearing this!"

Normally the observation screens were translucent, and he could see how many gangly figures were pressed against the glass as they watched from above, but ever since they'd removed the monitoring machine and released him to 'have lunch' the glass remained dark.

There were no forthcoming answers, and he shivered again from the room's airy coolness that kept breathing down on him.

He shoved one spindly arm down a sleeve, feeling its light and cheap texture chaff against the smoothness of his skin. He paused in mid-transition, realizing what this meant. Bright wine-coloured orbs looked fleetingly to the figures he tried to imagine behind the glass before settling on the sterile white of the gown. With growing reluctance, Zim put both arms through the sleeves before attempting to tie the laces up over his PAK. The rest of the gown pooled around his legs like an expanding bedsheet.

It did little to warm him, his skin tingling against the rough material that wasn't as silky smooth as his uniform. The sleeve cuffs sagged around his claw tips, the skirting rolling over his toes. But it was what it symbolized that made his heart tremble.

Curves appeared under his eyes when he looked up at them, lips curling into a leering snarl, his gaze lastly resting on the smaller glass window above.

He approached the food trolley and the idle white spoon sitting atop a sterile white napkin.

That spoon was closer to freedom than he. That spoon could leave this room, and though it would in all probability be thrown into the trash, it would at least be able to leave this place one way or another.

Zim could smell the tormenting fragrances coming from the offerings, and his spooch clenched uncomfortably. Some of the items that were on offer were his favourites, but they could easily have slipped poison in the food to make him more compliant. And if he were to eat from their hands, he was submitting another part of himself to them.

I c_an't... lose to these... PIGS! I mustn't fall for their dirty tricks! Mustn't let them win. Mustn't give in...! _

One angry swipe had many of the foodstuffs and plates bouncing across the floor. Grease and ice cream made colourful splatters, with syrup and golden custard running off the trolley's sides.

His antennae picked up their gasping exhalations from the intercom before someone shut it off in time.

The scientists looked at one another as the Irken rampantly continued, knocking every item, plate, bowl or cup off the trolley.

"It still needs fluids, right?" Rick asked them.

"Maybe it just needs sustenance from the sun? Or the air?" Ben stood, rubbing his head, looking honestly perplexed. "What a waste of good food. I struggled to get those fresh apricots."

"Perhaps the food... offends it? Does it need blood perhaps?" Torrent started flipping through the ZIM files, which he had already done so some thirty times without seeming to find what he originally wanted.

"Not this 'human flesh' stuff again, please!" Williams took the files off him. "Look here! On page 99! It says that the subject has certain allergies! But it can eat waffles. Were there waffles on that trolley?"

It took all of Zim's willpower not to start tucking into the fallen banquet before him and it hurt to hold back. The suffocating smells of the food conflicted with the high walls that checked his restraint. His spooch clenched ever tighter, and the food smells made him nauseous after having abstained from eating for so long.

The trodden chocolate cake, laced with butter cream icing, was still gently steaming with heat. His feet were smeared with multiple colours of ice cream, and he could not escape the enticing smells of coffee and honey.

Using both claws he pushed paper plates into sticky puddles and squashed foodstuffs under his feet. He grabbed the melon and threw it at the observation screen. It undershot, missing by two inches and promptly exploded. Zim limped for the next hardiest item: a paper bowl of hazel nuts, and started flinging them at the glass, only to bounce and ricochet off the windows.

Zim dropped the now-empty hazel nut bowl and stared, wide-eyed at the vacant trolley. Sticky residues of sauce were smeared over the chrome surface. He lifted a claw and went to reach for it, only to clench up and retreat.

A voice crackled through the intercom above. "Surely you must eat. What is there we can offer?"

"Your testicles!" Zim hollered, his voice cracking.

Back in the observatory, Williams delivered a long, worn sigh. He switched off the intercom and turned to the awaiting colleagues. The professor stood by the terminal, head low, and wasn't even watching the scene unfold below. "We may have to give A01 fluids intravenously."

"We can't if its allergic to basic water." Torrent was leaning against the wall, watching the creature kick and stomp on the food. A thick, white plaster had been slapped on the bridge of his nose, and a wad of bloodied cotton was shoved up one nostril.

"If this creature needs sustenance, and refuses to take nutrients of any sort, we will have to intervene."

"Let the damn thing starve! It's immortal after all." Torrent received only silence. "Isn't it?"

Williams looked down at the floor for what felt like a very long time. Then he exhaled again, shaking his head.

The professor straightened, fists resting at his sides. Then he was gone, hurrying through an automated door. Torrent looked at the others for answers, and only got blank faces in return.

It wasn't long before the professor reappeared below after going through a red-alert door to confront the free-roaming creature. The door clapped shut behind him. Zim froze, claws dripping with gravy and butter, eyes an intense and vivid red as he slowly turned towards the intruder.

The professor clasped his hands at his back and said in a calm voice: "Spero autem non sapiunt mihi loqui ad vos in sermone isto?"

Williams turned to the others. "What is he saying? What language is that?"

Torrent straightened from the wall, his eyes fixed on the pair below.

Zim's scratchy and childlike voice matched the professor's fluent accentuations perfectly with barely a beat in-between as if transitioning from one language to another required no effort. "Recede a me!"

Williams turned to the LIVE feed showing on the computer screen from the camera to make sure the footage was being recorded. "Professor?" He hit the intercom button, "Why are you not speaking in English?"

The professor momentarily looked to the camera surveying them before continuing to solely converse with A01. "Carlson et erit hic primum. Vos postulo ut vado tergum cathedra priusquam..."

"Numquam! Sunt vobis insanis?" Zim's upper lips lifted, and he took a step back, trudging through the slush of grapes, wafer cones and banana.

"Sicut posuit in spectaculum! Quod non diu!"

The creature was distressfully flourishing his claws. "Dimitte me! Et hic in insanimus! Quam haec est... te ut interficias me...!"

The professor touched a button on the lapel of his coat and a wall of glass appeared between them, lifting from the floor and touching the ceiling in seconds. The professor then touched another nigh-invisible button sown into a seam and tiny vents appeared along the walls on Zim's side. The alien continued to step backwards, eyes on the walls and ceiling as if the room itself had become a seamless, moving and constant threat.

Williams stood up from his chair. The door burst open into their observatory and Dib appeared, sweat condensing his brow, his scythe of hair wilting between his eyes. "What's going on? What's my dad doing? Zim will kill him!"

As he walked backwards, Zim's PAK hit the metal platform. He spun round as if it was a living enemy to confront. Sharp cerise eyes looked again to the professor who remained in the same position across the room. Something flashed through the invader's eyes, the teeth re-appeared, and he charged the short distance he had just retreated and smacked, headlong into the glass barrier.

The tiny vents started releasing billows of smoke which began to flood Zim's side. The Irken looked to the streams of whitish smoke pouring in, trying to turn and confront and glance at every vent and gush of smoke. He turned to the professor and wilted before the glass, glass that began to drop back into the floor.

Dib grabbed the mic. "Dad! What are you doing?"

His voice certainly had an effect on both of them. Zim lifted his head up, attention now on the observation screen, though it was unclear if he could see _through_ it or not.

The professor, his attention also diverted for a split second, began to walk forward and held up a hand. It was hard to tell whether he possessed a device or not, for Zim stumbled to his feet only to fall backwards, slipping on a puddle of coagulated cream.

"Why is he not attacking my dad?" He turned to the patiently watching audience of scientists, holding his side.

"He must have that ultrasonic repellent." Williams said. "It emits short wavelengths of high frequency sound waves that are too high-pitched for us to hear."

The door Dib had used moments before burst wide, and Carlson dropped on them like an avalanche. "What's going on here? The professor said we'd begin the trial at exactly 06:00! What's with the mess! Why is that thing loose, dammit?"

"We were hoping to feed it before the first trial." Williams inferred. "To be at its best, we need to give it some care or it'll merely perish."

"What a load of garbage! It's not a delicate little flower! It's as tough as nails! What's the professor hoping to do? Kill himself so that the thing can eat him?"

They watched the professor continually advance without hesitation or reluctance. Zim continued to fall back in fits and starts until his retreat was met by the metal of the chair. The professor spoke, his voice so low the audio sensors couldn't pick it up. The alien grabbed the armrest, legs shaking, and shook his head violently several times.

Carlson couldn't believe it. "This is ridiculous! I leave you charlatans alone for two minutes and this is what I find?"

The words had barely left his lips when the subject slowly sat himself back down in the chair. Williams hastily complied, slapping a hand on the terminal's activation button, and the cuffs flashed over Zim's wrists and ankles again.

The sergeant blinked, pulling back from the glass. "Now I'll be darned. That there is a trained little mouse. You may not all be charlatans and baboons after all."

Williams, and many of his colleagues breathed a collective sigh of relief. Dib clung to the terminal as if he hadn't the strength to hold himself up. The professor didn't linger in the chamber and was already issuing 'clean up' orders through the observatory's intercom 'for the regenerative examination trial' to begin.

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**Dib07:** Thanks for reading! It gets pretty crazy from here on out, and I will give plenty of warning, don't worry! I hope Zim enjoyed his vacation because it's over!

I cannot thank you and your support enough, it keeps me rolling! Anyways, hope you have an awesome day!


	4. All I Wanted

**Debacle (R)**** \- Subject Zim**

_**Summary: **_

_All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he always wanted. When his wish comes true however, not everything falls so comfortably into place._

_**Disclaimer:**_

_I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine. _

_This is from the old story **Debacle **which I rewrote awhile ago. You can read it as it is, and needs nothing else to accompany it. ^-^ _

_**Warnings:**_

_Dark themes and angst throughout. Some chapters carry a hefty** R** warning._

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**Dib07: **Thank you for the reviews, they really cheer me up, especially during such a tough and challenging year where it's easy to lose faith and motivation. The reviews have just been so... juicy too! I have been re-reading them on my phone, giggling in random places, like the locker room and out in public, lol. It just makes my DAY!

Right, let's get on with this thing...!

**Apocalypticmind: **Thank you, this gives me hope! I also hope this chapter is pretty okay too!

* * *

**All I Wanted**

He cycled through the footage, the reflections cast on the lens of his glasses as he flicked through them. In one recording three men were huddled around a table, their suited forms making them move like bulky and cumbersome marshmallows. The item currently under speculation was so tiny that he nearly missed it. A tiny pink marble had been placed in the steel centre and the men were prodding it with thin metal appliances.

"This is a waste of time! I keep telling you idiots that it's just a toy marble!" One of the scientists was awkwardly fumbling with his space-like helmet, and when he lifted it off to the grey and lined face of Williams was revealed. Dib watched him turn away and head for the door. Unperturbed in their quest, one of the suited scientists picked up the marble in gloveless hands and started turning it. The explosion was instantaneous, sending both men to opposite ends of the room, the front of their suits blackened and smoking: face helmets cracked. The camera must have blown because the footage snapped to black.

He hit the button, cycling to the next recording of earlier.

The polished sides of her purple hull and gleaming pink windshield stirred up sudden biting jealously.

The wound stung in reply, and he grimly clung to it. With all the lights surrounding it, above, below, and around, it brought out the lustre in her coating and propulsion systems. Few dents remained of battle, with even fewer marks of space flight, plainly illustrating the effort the pilot put into maintaining the ship.

The Voot Runner had been gently scooped out of the house's roof and placed on the back of a flatbed truck before being padded for the long journey. They had barely been able to lift it using the GV crane. He had stood on the sidelines, watching the slow and arduous process, and the biting resentment felt like a claw slashing his chest. It did not fade, even when the Voot was driven down the road. It should have been his. It didn't matter if he was too small for it, if the tech could never be understood or that he already had an Irken ship hidden away.

In the recording, the Voot sat on a small platform: scrutinized by a thousand lights. Every shadow was brought to light; every nodule and tiny vein of piping was thrown out of the dark. Like its stubborn pilot, it stood, uncontested, and unbeaten. The windshield, the gate to its integrity, was intact. Men cautiously approached it with tools and prods extended as if they were cornering a rampant and ferocious beast. As soon as anything touched it, a veil of pink burst outwards, throwing the men back, electrical discharge purring over the Voot and over the floor and walls like glittery, rippling water. The screams of pain had him quickly shut off the footage.

He took his glasses off so that he could wipe the sweat off his face using an old handkerchief.

Zim had been his mountain, to climb, to conquer, and to demolish.

The mountain had been tipped upside down, his assets and worth strung out into exhibits reminiscent of a carnival freak.

The door clicked open and Dib spun round, pain spiking his side as if someone was pressing glass through the flesh. Torrent stood in the doorway, the lapel of his lab coat smeared with brown and yellow stains. His eyes were dark and watchful. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dib? Dib Membrane?" No recognition lightened the man's eyes. "...The one who gave you guys the alien?"

"What are you doing?" Then in the next breath, "You shouldn't be in here!"

"Why not? I have the right!"

"Get out! Now!"

He opened his mouth, about to conform to the usual: _"I'm gonna tell my dad!" _before stopping on the first syllable. "Fine. Whatever." He grabbed his jacket and hurried past Torrent, stepping dizzyingly into the cold and sterilized corridor. Geneva was a frigid, bland and insipid prison of labyrinthine corridors that insisted on a repeating and nauseating pattern. It was easy to lose your way and easy to double back on yourself, often passing the same door thrice before realizing you were going round in circles.

He found the correct stairwell because he had left a pink sweet wrapper there and trudged down it, hoping his side hadn't split open and that he wasn't still bleeding under the brick of padding.

Shuffling into the lobby, two scientists walked past without lifting their heads to notice him. He half wanted to chase them down, and yell and scream his name, but the desire fizzled out within the moment.

He checked his wristwatch. It was eleven thirty. He had five hours before Zim's regenerative testing. As much as he wanted to rest, and find the courage to peer at the padding beneath his clothing, he had to check that old and kooky house to make sure the underground lair was still intact before making his way back in time.

Outside the glass doors, the gatherings of the crowd seemed to have thinned since yesterday. There was a young man holding a microphone and a clipboard, with perhaps a dozen protestors pressing forwards at his back.

Using his key card, the glass doors opened, and as soon as the watery sunlight hit his face, he put on a big smile. Cameras flashed. People started looking excitedly his way, their voices surging into one loud noise. He rose his hand up, trying to copy the confidence of his father. Prof. Membrane handled the press with ease, never once getting ruffled, or losing a shade of that coolness that kept him grounded. The cover on Science of Today hadn't captured the image he'd wanted on the too-pale, too-strained image of himself standing, overshadowed by his self-assured father.

"Are you Dib Membrane?" The microphone was in his face again, but instead of backing away, he inched forwards, continuing to wave at his audience.

"How do you feel?"

His smile waned when he saw the protestors moving in. "Thank you, thank you! One at a time, please!"

"What will happen to the alien?"

"When will we be able to see it?"

"Is this just another scam for money?"

"Why is the military involved?"

As he waved and smiled, he saw that he was just a figurehead for their questions and all-consuming curiosity about Zim; not about him, his life, and his ambitions.

"Yes, well, it was difficult for me." He said, trying to imagine a different audience asking questions that mattered. "But the world is safe, thanks to me. I always said aliens were real, that they were right here! Who knows what else is out there, targeting Earth! And I..." Something splattered onto his face, his glasses covered in some sticky, gooey substance. He turned away, blinded, hands clawing to his face. Someone was laughing.

He pulled away, spitting out the substance that had got into his mouth as more of it dribbled down his chin and neck. He stumbled and fell; something wet and hot exploded down his ribs and stomach, and the laughter found new sums of hilarity.

In the jeering and pain and darkness, someone reached up to take his hand and he was led forwards. His feet stumbled after them, the laughter braying in his ears. Whoever had him by the hand was small, and he had to bend his back. Using an arm he irritably rubbed his glasses with a sleeve, and the yellow substance greased along the lenses. A rotten, eggy smell filled his nostrils and mouth. Something green was walking ahead of him, and entangling guilt and fear collided into a storm, causing his chest to tighten. "Z-Zim?"

"No, silly!"

Dib's eyes softened. The little paw released his hand.

He removed his glasses and tried to clean off the goo with his shirt. When he placed them back over his nose, Gir's doggie face stared back through the smears.

"What are you doing here?" He spat out egg. "I told you not to follow me!"

"Awww! Don't be mad! I bought cake!" And he whisked out a cake from seemingly nowhere from his backside and presented it on a rose-tinted place on nubby little paws. It looked like dark chocolate cake through the smears, but even he noticed the twig sticking up from its centre, and he could smell leaf mulch and a sweet earthly aroma that was not sugar icing or cocoa.

"Is that a mud pie?"

It was beginning to drip from the plate. Runny soil trickled down Gir's paws.

He checked behind him to see garbage overflowing along a brick wall. Zim's android had led him to the dustbins at the back of Geneva. Rage and shame brightened his cheeks beneath the plastered yolk. When he turned to Gir, his shout made the robot flinch and step away. "I told you not to follow me!"

Gir looked down at his 'cake' before tears gathered in those mismatched eyes.

Dib watched the undeniably real tears fall and plop onto the trash-littered stone. He wanted to see him as a volatile and unpredictable robot that had been engineered to help with Zim's evil. Now he could only see an orphan. He reached out, and took the grubby plate from grubby paws. "Thanks, Gir. Maybe I'll have some later." The 'dog' perked up immediately with tail wagging, floppy ears lifting. "You miss him, don't you?" He reached out, he didn't know why. He was hurting, from the jeers, the humiliation. No one had a kind word to say to him: no one stopped to notice him, and no one ever hugged him.

Gir bypassed the hand entirely and leapt forwards to hug him, nubby paws clinging desperately to his neck.

-x-

He stared at the crooked green house that no longer presented the looming malice he ordinarily felt when looking at it. Its walls and skewered windows weren't glowing or pulsing, as if something inside had capsized, and the windows were aglow with the cold flashing lights of red and blue from the adjacent cop cars that were parked on the front lawn. Yellow tape flittered and whipped about from their posts. The leering satellite that had stretched like a singular reaching arm had been taken down and the lawn gnomes had been packed and carted away. Men sat in their patrol cars, keeping an eye out for scavengers and protestors or anyone else who happened to get too close, while the investigation team pecked through the site like archaeologists looking for old bones.

"You stay here." He turned in his seat to give Gir what he hoped was a convincing look.

"You still have egg on you!"

He peered tiredly at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His jacket was crusty with dried yolk, and blobs of it clung to his ebony hair. When he spoke, his eyes held his battered and bruised reflection. "They never did ask how it ended between us, Gir. I kinda thought they wanted to know, I guess."

Gir was munching great mouthfuls of mud.

He sighed, looking at the dull vestiges of a province that once stirred up boundless exhilaration as he prepared for that ride only Zim could offer.

How long would it take for Carlson's all-seeing and probing eye to turn towards home? The specifics of the fight hadn't come under much scrutiny, the immediateness of it lost beneath the excitement of 'Zim.' The battleground had held no grandeur, only a desperate kind of animalistic desperation. He was always too tired to fill up a bucket and confront the green and ruby stains. They had dried, caking to the floor and walls like paint. The claws marks in the doorway needed to be filled in, and repainted. The fusion weapon would have to be hidden, preferably buried.

He had been prepared to lie about the final battle, to make it seem more spectacular. But no one had asked, and he was no longer sure what to say even if something presented him with the question.

He gave one last glance at the anxiously staring 'dog' in the backseat and slammed the door shut. Wind whisked and played at his coat tails. The movements of his hip kept stirring up the pain, and he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from groaning.

The red and blue lights pulsed over him, turning his white and egg-stained face into something grey and ghoulish.

"Hey! Hey you!" A cop confronted him on Zim's old pathway. Tiny craters remained of where the gnomes were once rooted. He couldn't stop comparing them to garden vegetables, and that they had been harvested like turnips. "Hey! Boy!"

He turned, glass lenses flashing coldly as the sun disappeared behind grey and sombre clouds.

"You need to back off! This is a crime scene."

"I'm Dib Membrane." He held up his key card. It teased open painful disappointments. The card was opening pathways and thorny roads while his face and name remained closed to people. "I'm here to check on the investigation team. Professor Membrane's orders."

"His... o-orders?" He stammered, and quickly jumped aside.

Wherever he went, his father's repute followed him like a dark and heavy shadow.

It was like stepping into something that belonged to a far-flung and distant past. The wallpaper had been scrapped back to reveal drywall, and the drywall had been drilled or blasted into, exposing tubes and wires and circuitry that spilled out like intestines. The TV had been hauled away in a truck, so had the sofa, and every picture frame. An apocalypse had blown through Zim's house, and leaves gusted in after him on a mud stained carpet. The coffee table had been split in two. The kitchen ripped apart. He stood in the plaster-rubble, heart racing and mouth dry as he snapped looks to every gaping hole and excavated perforation.

_You're that golden goose, Zim. The goose that keeps on giving. _

The mountain had fallen, exposing its roots. The horizon opened before him, but there was nothing accelerating left to climb, no high points to look from.

_Nothing lasts forever. Not even between us. _

The rooms were filled with the salvo of drilling and pounding, of pristine drills penetrating the deeper walls, of fine-tuned hammers chipping back and peeling away the fibres. The excavation team with CSI stamped in black on their uniforms toiled in white protective suits. They clawed away sections, grabbed and pulled things before secreting them away in sealed bags. One of the suited men was rolling up the rug, exposing wooden floorboards. Under that would be a layer of heavy-duty metal and under that would be about a mile of earth. The toilet in the kitchen had been removed, exposing the slim passage of the conduit. The bin had also been excavated, revealing another narrow passage.

The bookcase was the only piece of furniture left that hadn't been spoiled.

They were all too busy hammering, drilling and chipping at the walls. He flashed out his hand and dropped a charge down the opening of the conduit, and did the same for the opening where the bin was. He came to stand by the bookcase, watching the vultures do their work. The beauty of the place was torn out, parts of it individually packaged and labelled in cold methodology. Zim's legacy amounted to tagged and labelled items in stored boxes: his existence part of human history alongside fossils, curious medieval finds, and artefacts of another epoch.

A wall crumbled, exposing filaments that weakly pulsed. A gloved hand reached up and grabbed them, pulling them out of the cavity. Dib couldn't watch. He tapped on the lowermost side of the bookcase and it tipped open. The charge made a sound as it bounced inside, but the drilling concealed it. Another tap and the bookcase closed with the softest click.

When he stepped forward something crunched beneath his boot heel. He looked down, boot coming away from fragments of a broken toy. The nausea rose up suddenly, his mouth filled with saliva and he hurried out into the cold winds, but the icy chill on his burning cheeks did not alleviate him. Struggling to pull in a breath, he hobbled to the car parked on the curb.

Gir's lopsided dog-suit eyes were watching him through the glass.

He stood, hunched by the car, a hand on its metal. Swallowing brought back a stronger reflex to chuck up his insides.

The pavement pulsed red and blue. Even when he shut his eyes to try and gravitate the spinning, he could still see the PAK's pulses on the backs of his eyelids.

When his eyes cleared, when he had loosened his hands from around Zim's throat, he had stared at the makings of what he'd done. His cold and shaking hand had reached forwards to rock a limp and tiny shoulder.

He hunched up, insides roiling around, and his stomach contents splattered onto the pulsing red and blue pavement. Soup-grey liquid ran off the stone and into the grass.

Wrenching the car door open, he collapsed into the seat.

He could feel Gir watching him.

Running the back of his hand against his lips, he watched the clouds above break apart. Soft, new sunshine slid back onto the street, lining every tree, car and house in velvet gold.

When his eyes looked into the rear-view mirror, he caught sad _accusing_ dog eyes staring back.

His throat clenched, hands squeezing on the steering wheel. "Don't look at me like that. Zim was bad, Gir. He didn't care about you. He would have walked all over you to get what he wanted."

Gir looked down, face covered in mud and twigs.

He picked up the remote, the cold of its plastic contrasting with the heat of his palm. He pressed it, and he could feel as much as hear three concussive blasts coming from inside the slouched and crooked house that used to glow. He watched the men in their protective suits fall out of the doorway as smoke chased after them.

His wristwatch began to pulse with shrill jingles. Pressing a hand to his chest, he realized what it was and lifted the watch to his face. He hit the intercom button and his father's holographic face appeared above the watch's blue plate. "Son! Where are you?" His tone was stern and sharper than usual. This kind of tone was saved especially for when he'd arrive home late after school, or when he ended up with another detention.

"I'm... I'm out. In the car. Driving..."

"Get to Geneva this instant!" And the holographic image disappeared.

He closed a hand over the watch and leaned back, his head resting on the backrest of his seat, chest heaving. Zim's next session wasn't due for another two hours and forty five minutes, but his father's abrasiveness fetched up every worry he had been trying to squeeze away. He kept imagining scenarios of Zim escaping. Of Zim coming for him.

He released the handbrake and put his foot on the gas, arm snapping the steering wheel into a harsh 180.

Wetness was creeping through his shirt; the material sticking to him.

He parked outside Waterfall National Park, stumbled out of the car and swung the passenger door wide. He gestured at the cavernous woods where shadows crept, moved and fluttered. Flowers skirting the border bobbed their heads to the tune of the wind. "Get out."

Gir carefully and quietly slid out. The damn thing was like a living, animate cartoon that would only snag on his patience and complicate his life. And he was still holding that ridiculous cake monstrosity on a soiled plate. Gir attempted offering it to him again even when it was half eaten, but Dib had already turned away and was in the car. He backed onto the road. Gir became a tiny misshapen dog thing in the distance until the green dot couldn't be seen against the backdrop of trees.

-x-

He lurched out of the car like his midsection was broken and staggered heavily up the stone steps to the front of the building. The lingering, pestering crowd wasn't there on account of someone leaning against the glass doors. Seeing the purple hair and raised and narrowed eyes still had the unfortunate affect of making him shudder. He acted as though he hadn't noticed her, and fussed with his rumpled jacket, eyes downward as he proceeded, but the ice in her words still plunged through his chest wall.

"Way to go, Dib."

He lifted his eyes to look back at her. Her smile was calculating and cold, but her amber eyes burned. "What's your problem?"

"Why don't you take a good look in the mirror?" Her smile was cunning, a catlike smile, but there was no warmth there.

"Do I even want to know what you're doing here?"

She thumbed the entrance beside her. "Dad works here. Obviously." She rolled her eyes. "I'm taking him out to lunch. When he's dealt with you."

He thought of demanding an answer, then shook his head despairingly at her, lips trembling, and pushed through the glass door. His father was waiting for him, arms folded, looking like a disappointed teacher that was about to hand him a suspension slip. With him was Williams. The transition was so sudden, and their looks so sombre that he entirely forgot about his sister's reception.

"What's this about?" Dib looked between them, anxiously trying to pinpoint a telltale giveaway to their sudden urgency. His stomach kept roiling around, his mouth tasted like bile, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"This way, please." And his father ushered him towards the elevator, his voice aloof as if he was merely speaking to an underling.

"Zim's got out, hasn't he? You want me safe, is that it?"

The professor's hand was clasped on his shoulder; it was heavy and severe, almost squeezing painfully into bone.

Their silence was infuriating. He was planted between them, like a criminal guarded on each side by police officers.

They took him out of the elevator and down a seamless and cold corridor. The stink of bleach and antiseptics and latex was back.

_There was no way they discovered that I planted those charges! I made sure I wasn't seen! _

_What if there's something incriminating in my files?_

The professor took him to a door, and Williams promptly knocked on the metal with a light tap of his knuckles. When it opened, Carlson's knotted face was there to greet him. The sergeant tried to smile, but his lips twisted into something that made Dib think of knotted and rusty wire. "Step inside son." He stepped back, and Dib walked in, eyes flashing to the chamber's interior, sure to see restraints ready to admit him. The room was small, with a few swivel chairs, a table, and a bank of monitoring computers, some of which were turned off, while one displayed the pulsing lines from an ECG that could only be Zim's vitals. Others showed bits and parts of the subject's body, skeletal structure and organs in graphic detail.

Carlson, arms folded, sat on the desk by the bank of computers, sucking on a cocktail stick. Aside from the professor and Williams, he looked most at ease. He gestured at the chair before him. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

Dib looked to the chair, not liking the atmosphere, or Carlson's sudden interest in him. The sergeant had hardly looked his way; had hardly acknowledged him since Zim's arrival.

As much as he preferred to stand, his vision was plagued with blinding afterimages and the floor like to move around as if he was standing in water.

He eased himself into the chair as naturally as he could, and managed to do it without wincing.

"I'd like you to watch what we recorded a little earlier." Carlson's uneasy and stiff smile lingered on that lined and watchful face. He turned slightly, and tapped on the keyboard. The computer screen in front of him lit up, presenting the thin, naked and drawn form of his nemesis as he sat, welded to the metal chair, arms and chest strung with wires that clung unceremoniously to his nymphet body.

"Hey!" Zim was hoarsely shouting at someone off-screen. "Don't I get to make a phone call?"

There was mumblings from the observers that the camera could barely pick up. Then a tinny version of Carlson's voice piped up. "Hang on! I want to see where this goes!"

Dib watched Zim's pale face light up, those narrowed eyes widening into softer curvatures. A bulky plastic phone was presented, and he watched those skinny green arms try to lift to reach for it only to jar against bloodied restraints. Williams approached in the recording, standing in view of the camera as he held the phone.

"What's the number?" Williams asked.

"0076 00..." Zim started, his lips lifting at the nearness of the scientist. Eventually the phone was lifted towards his right antenna. There was a click on the other end, and a childlike voice was heard.

Dib's heart plunged.

"Gir?!" Zim's eyes fluttered and the soft pink of his pupils seemed to dilate. "Gir is that you? Where are you? Are you okay?"

"I like mud! I have lots of new friends! Dib made sure I was comfy!"

The recording was abruptly shut off, the image of Zim's mingled pain and relief was still in his eyes, and Carlson moved his hand away from the keyboard. He lifted the cocktail stick from his lips and twirled it in his index finger and thumb. His voice was calm when he asked: "Who is this Gir?"

"I don't know!" He looked to them, to Carlson, his father, Williams. "Zim's doing this just to spite me! He's always trying to get me! Don't be fooled by him!"

"You mentioned in your files that A01 had a robot assistant."

"Yes, the uh, robot parents he has stuffed in his cupboards or wherever!"

Carlson stopped twiddling the stick for a minute, hard eyes settling on Dib's. "These 'robot parents' of his has been dissembled. The call connected to a mobile device."

"You have everything of his! He was just calling some neighbour or friend! He manipulates and lies to survive! I have nothing to do with this!"

Carlson held the slim stick a moment before snapping it in half. "You're not in any trouble, son. But if there's anything we've missed, anything we should know, I believe you'll come through for us." He looked at him, his gaze as heavy as concrete. Dib fidgeted where he sat, armpits tickling with sweat.

"You have everything!" He said again through gritted teeth, struggling not to wince and cry out as the pain magnified and climbed through him. Carlson's gaze quietly probed, as if he could undress him with those wolfish, gunmetal eyes. His iron scrutiny took in his twitching fingers, the sweaty shine on his nose and forehead.

He didn't know what to say in his defence.

The sergeant stood up slowly from the desk as if his back troubled him. He approached, and Dib stared, straightening in turn, heart racing, blood and the sweat saturating his clothes.

The man planted a hand on his shoulder and said in his ear: "You have egg on you." He smiled, and the tension lifted in the same moment. Dib felt his inner core sag, the air finally getting to his lungs. "You can go." Carlson turned to the professor and the cardiologist before shortly gesturing at Dib. "I haven't been formally introduced to the world's bravest hero. I think it's about time we got to know one another a little better. What do you say, Dib?"

He slapped him on the back of his shoulder blades, causing him to let slip a pain-filled moan. "S-Sure."

Prof. Membrane hesitated, looking to his son. Williams was at the door, not enthused on staying.

"Well, all right." The professor said with difficulty. He turned and left with the doctor.

Dib watched the door shut on their retreat, the closing click as final as a hammer sliding back on a gun.

"It's all right, son. There's no need to look so spooked." Carlson turned to the water receptacle and drew out water into a plastic cup. He handed it to Dib who weakly smiled when he took it. Sipping it and getting his throat working did not suppress the shivers or make him feel any less sick. "You're a smart kid. And you're a survivor. I admire you, you've had to suffer, and do so alone. Many a man twice your age would crumble at the slightest danger. But not you."

"T-Thanks." The nausea rose like the rising tide. He wasn't sure if it was because of the wound, because of the blips and bleeps of the ECG in the background, or because it happened to be Carlson who was finally giving him recognition.

"I wish there was more brave men like you out there." He folded his arms, his voice warmer and softer than Dib had ever heard it, that wincing smile remaining, but he looked at him as a farmer might look at one of his fattening piglets. "There has been this one thing that's been bothering me though."

"Y-yeah? What's that?"

"I find it curious that you've happily sat on the sidelines, watching the proceedings without taking a more active approach. Don't you want to hurt that thing after what it's done to you?"

Dib sipped at the water, taking his time, but there was no outlasting a soldier. They had the patience to endure bombardment in the trenches, and wait for their prey to stumble into an ambush.

Carlson seemed to sense his hesitation, but did not appear harassed or disappointed by it. He lifted his bushy eyebrows and took a cocktail stick packet out from his cargo pant pocket. "Your father wants to mollycoddle the creature. As if it has rights. But we both know A01 threw those away the moment he breached Earth's stratosphere. He is an invader, as a virus is to the human body."

"It's okay." He breathed out. "I'll let the experts handle it."

Those calculating eyes roamed over his body again. "You're scared, son. But that's okay. I know what you're going through. It happened to me once, a long time ago, before you were born."

"S-Scared?"

"Why else do you avoid the opportunity, my boy? You don't want to face A01. Why is that? Is it the guilt? The fear that he might hurt you again?"

"I... I just don't want to, that's all."

"Isn't there anything you want to say to it?"

"No." He took a breath. "I have nothing to say."

"That's okay, son. It takes guts to look your enemy in the face. Especially ones you once knew, ones you trusted. They're like a knife in the back. It stirs up things inside. And they want to weaken you. But you mustn't let them." He softly patted Dib on the shoulder. "You're strong in heart and spirit. You're the type who'll always rise above evil. Your father however has strange and ineffective ideals. You can never trust those who dance on both sides of the fence."

"He... he wants to see the best in people. That's how he's always been..."

"Then he is a fool. But I believe in you." He approached the desk and retrieved a beat-up, dog eared copy of his ZIM files. "The intel you gathered... I'm impressed. You uncovered so much about the enemy all by yourself. Your father tells me this started when you were just shy of eleven years old."

Dib nodded, unable to hold the self-conscious smile. The nausea abated. "I couldn't just stand by, and let the world fall into Zim's hands."

"You have tenacity, son. Something your father overlooks. I've noticed."

Dib produced another awkward smile, hand haplessly drawing to the aching throb spreading to his armpit and pelvis.

Carlson straightened, eyebrows lifting. "You look terrifically pale, my boy."

"It's nothing." He sunk back, fixed in place, sweat running down his temple.

"Let's see now, it's okay."

"No!" He shot to his feet, swerved round, hit the chair that seemed to position itself in the way, and stumbled to the floor. The game was over. When he looked round, palms and knees flat on the grubby hard linoleum, dots of blood were wherever he'd been. The back of the chair looked like someone had spilled red dye down it.

Carlson knelt before him. Dib slowly looked up into those hard and stoic eyes. Grimly the sergeant opened out his jacket to reveal the deep red saturating his shirt and gauze. The soggy material clung to his skin like wet plastic. The sergeant mildly shook his head, grunting. "You've been hiding that, haven't you?"

"H-How did you...?" His voice rattled out of trembling lips.

"Reading people inside and out is my God given job. Who did that to you, son?"

"It's n-nothing..." He dipped his eyes away, knowing it was useless to keep up the act. He had never been good at hiding behind masks like Zim could.

"That monster did that to you, didn't he? I wondered how you did it when you approached me unscathed, and gave A01 to me."

He clamped his jaw, eyes screwing shut_. Idiot! Idiot!_

There would be a quiet place he'd be taken to, and he may not be allowed to leave Geneva for an indefinite period of time. He might be treated very well by the staff but he'd still be prisoner.

Carlson offered him a hand. He looked at it, weighing up his narrowing options, and gingerly took it. The military man helped him up. "Let me take you to that oddball doctor of the professor's. I'm sure he can clean you up and see to that injury. Looks like you've lost quite a bit of blood too."

"Aren't you going to detain me? Examine me?"

Carlson's laughter was a lot like his abrasive grunts. He took him by the elbow with one arm around his shoulders as he led him through the door and down the hall. "Good one, kid."

Dib allowed the support, he wasn't sure he could hold his own weight, but being this close to the sergeant seemed to widen the pain and fill him with a feverish panic. The man smelt of grease, gun oil, whiskey and that musty attic smell you got when you retrieved an item of clothing from the vestiges of neglect.

"Blood loss can make you feel inebriated." He sergeant's tones sounded painfully imitated, his smile that persistent and uncomfortable wince. A puppet would have given a more genuine expression. "Let's hope that monster didn't hit you anywhere vital. How did it happen?"

"I... I was..." He had been mostly paying attention to the inlaid diamonds patterned on the floor, and as they moved, the floor suddenly veered upwards, but instead of hitting the wood, he sunk straight through, the diamonds breaking apart like so many drifting clouds beneath the shifting and waxing of colours. Things twirled in that hidden world, like leaves of whispered heartache.

Zim's thin willowy silhouette was standing against the backdrop of a giant screen revealing the spiralling constellations and galaxies in their pulsing millions. In his gloved hand was a remote.

His thumb hit the button.

_"The Armada aren't coming."_

The screen blew outwards, enveloping Zim's form.

When he opened his eyes, a blurry world peered back, and a monstrous figure was hovering just out of reach, the face a mask with dark oval things perched on top. He blinked, heart pounding, about to scream when the figure materialized into his father. "Aha! There you are my boy!" His words clapped into his ears like dynamite exploding.

He made to sit up; trying to find and arrange his noodle-like limbs, but a hand was planted on his shoulder before he had even begun the attempt and he laid his pounding head back on the pillow.

"No no! You ought to rest. You have stitches, and moving around only aggravates them."

"Stitches?" He answered dreamily without making the connection.

"Quite so." He ran gloved fingers over his son's forehead. "There is little use explaining my disappointment in you. You shoulder so much, without ever seeking help."

He swallowed, feeling thorns down there. His head felt like it had a wedge of glass inside it. "Where am I?"

"You are tucked up in my spare room. Geneva has many spare offices and rooms set aside for us."

Dib lifted his blankets to see that he was wearing blood-peppered boxers. His torso was bare except for the gauze meticulously wrapped around his midsection. He touched the curiously numbed and padded area with a kind of wonder.

"I would refrain from touching your wound. You banged your head and have a concussion. Your side has a laceration..."

"Zim did that..." He breathed out.

"And you never told me?"

"Guess I thought it would hold up..." His eyes flashed guiltily up at his. He heard his father sigh in exasperation. He went to sit up again more cautiously, wanting to discern where he was. He was in one of those steel and plain beds that were regularly used by late-night staff. The room was humble in its simplicity, with all the modest comforts of a hotel room. There were no tools, no metal devices and menacing computer screens. The only tech this room had to offer was an old TV set.

"Must you be so stubborn?" His father leaned forward a little to shore up a pillow so that his son could lean comfortably into it.

He blinked a few times, the dim lights in the room causing stars to blink and scatter in his eyes. "What... what was that thing you used? To make him sit back in that chair?"

"Thing?" His father paused a moment, and then sighed in recognition. "No, no, I carried no such device or instrument. I merely asked him to return to the chair."

Panic made him sit forwards, muscles tensing, "He would have attacked you if you weren't carrying something to defend yourself with! What about the smoke from the vents? What was that for?" _What were you thinking?_

"Don't concern yourself with such trivialities. You need to rest."

"I... I wanted to prove that I could!" He burst out, eyes glazing over. "All I wanted was for you to notice me! To make you proud!"

"Shush now, son." He was back to tenderly stroking his bandaged forehead, the touch magically wicking away the pain. "It is my fault. I drove you to this. My work divided my attention, but I never stopped believing in you, son. Never."

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**Dib07:** I always reply if you wanna leave your thoughts, and though I am a shy person, I love love sharing my enthusiasm for this franchise! Thanks for reading!

**TBC...?**


	5. Until it Breaks

**Debacle (R)**** \- Subject Zim**

_**Summary: **_

_All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he always wanted. When his wish comes true however, not everything falls so comfortably into place._

_**Disclaimer:**_

_I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine. _

_This is from the old story **Debacle **which I rewrote awhile ago. You can read it as it is, and needs nothing else to accompany it. ^-^ _

_**Warnings:**_

_Dark themes and angst throughout. This chapter carries a hefty** R** warning._

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**Dib07: This chapter contains distressing scenes. You can safely read the first section following Dib's POV, but with Zim it's not gonna be fun. I don't know how 'grim' it will be, and if I am just over-worrying it, but I will still warn you just in case. If you are 13 years old or younger, and if do not like gore or distressing scenes please don't go near this chapter! **

**I have removed scenes (a sizable section) concerning the explicit bit as of 7/12/20 to protect young readers in case you're wondering why it's not there, just so you know! ^^**

Also I wanna mention/have a special little shout out to** dizplicity **who really inspired me and gave me a confidence-boost, and **Ikainica **too! This chapter is dedicated to you guys, if you'll have it! *sweat drop*

**Guest **

It was a pretty tense and heartbreaking moment for Dib and his father, there was so much unsaid, so much damage done. And ahhh Gir's great! Especially with what he whips out! XD I can't wait to show more of him!

**Guest**

Ha ha be careful what you wish for, because you may just have got a little more than what you bargained for! Thanks for the review though, seriously. I am pretty nervous uploading this chapter, and your review helped me just go for it.

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**Until it Breaks**

He wasn't sure how long he had slept. Pain woke him, permitting him to escape the twisting, delirium-soaked carousels of dreams that him in a place where there were no doors, no windows, only white, growing walls that drew perpetually inwards until he was crushed between them. The agony of it as his skull popped, fingers shattering like icicles had him shooting forwards, gasping. His eyes, blurry and unfocused, stared at a solemn and plain room of silent and unmoving walls.

A simple and old-fashioned TV captured his gormless expression within its black glass.

He propped himself up on his elbows, recognition arriving in slow doses. Slender, bony fingers ran patterns along the silky pale cream sheets that clasped his body. The windows were closed with long, dark antique drapes, hiding whatever light was out there. Groping for his glasses, he slipped them over the bridge of his nose.

The unadorned and cheap plastic clock on the wall read half past seven. He hoped it was half past seven in the evening and that he hadn't slept into the next day.

He ran a hand through greasy black hair, knowing he had missed the regenerative trial. He probably still had access to what they had discovered and observed in digital and paper form, and perhaps that was better, as it kept him distant from Zim.

Pushing back sheets and blankets, he addressed the area a little more bravely, a hand lifting a sheaf of padding to see the tidily knitted line of stitching along his side above his hip. The parting had been carefully closed by a surgical hand, the long gash tidily knitted by a column of black plastic-like sutures.

Dib cautiously left the bed, wondering how far he could push himself. There was a spare change of clothing in the top drawer of the dresser, and a tray of plastic wrapped ham-rolls had been placed on the table alongside a pitcher of now-tepid water.

He sat down on a wingback armchair, meticulously peeled off the clingfilm and took a bite of the ham roll. The hunger hit him out of nowhere and he was tearing into it, gulping mouthfuls without properly chewing it.

He picked out the crumbs when there was nothing left and he cooled off his thirst with the slightly stale tasting water after pouring a tall measure into the provided paper cup.

He set it down, watched a droplet of water trickle from the rim and saw the water dripping from the bottle and onto Zim's sizzling thigh. The nausea pounced back and he clutched his stomach, immediately regretting the ham roll. Pinching his eyes shut with a forefinger and thumb, he tried to fight the dizziness as he reached for the pitcher. He swallowed down the water more carefully, and after a beat the nausea abated.

He brushed a finger over the stitches in mild fascination, and at how the flesh had opened so easily under the PAK leg's cool touch.

He had not forgotten the remarks of the scientists as they spoke about the unfortunate technician. He couldn't remember her name, only knowing that she had been paid off and wouldn't be returning.

_He scratched me. _

_He took her whole arm off._

_Was I just lucky? _

The soothing heat from the shower ameliorated the stiffness in his side and helped him feel clean again. Any remnants of blood and sweat went swilling down the plug hole.

Stepping out, he dried himself off, blow-dried his hair and took pains to comb and gel his scythe until it looked sharp enough to cut something.

In a fresh change of clothing, he opened the door, incredulous that they hadn't locked it so that he could go where he pleased.

_The sergeant was true to his word. _

The familiar train of corridors presented the same déjà vu malady, and when he encountered a vending machine posted by an office door, he happily slotted in a few of the coins he had procured from his wallet, and heard the satisfying plonk of the soda can when it hit the bottom of the drop box. He popped the aluminium ring and slurped down more bubbles than liquid.

He imagined his father had done something for the pain, whether through tablet form or injection, though he did not remember being fed pills or getting needled. The site of injury had that unsettling numbness to it, and he wondered, not for the first time, how sterile each point of each PAK leg was. He thought of venom, how certain insects and invertebrates used it, and that some poisons had a delayed effect.

Walking past various locked doors and various interconnecting and confusing corridors that seemed to shuffle forwards into the forever, he was sure he had passed the same potted fern plant some three times until he eventually came to a stairwell, the labelled number of each level a welcome relief to where he was in the complex. He proceeded all the way down, passing few men in their stiff and immaculate white coats, their expressions equally as stiff and synthetic. They would peer over their clipboards at him, some carrying documents, with medical aprons slung over one arm; giving the impression of death-dealing surgeons than scientists.

He travelled slowly to the last floor of Geneva where they kept and contained their animal specimens. There were plenty of shortcuts to take and other routes that weren't as dreary or as cheerless, but he couldn't help but visit the puppies who jumped up to see him, planting their little paws against the steel bars of the cage and pressing their wet noses against the mesh, tails wagging.

The floor was more like paving stone, and the air always smelled of ammonia, straw, distress and defecation. Before he had even opened the door he could hear the squawk of the parakeets and the meowing of the kittens.

The air was cool and dry, with fans working overtime to push back the smell. Grates garnished the floor every eight feet or so into a drainage system. Spare animal food was usually locked in plastic containers, and laid out on a desk were piles of used and empty feeding syringes.

A stricken yelp of a puppy resonated up ahead. He looked ahead, past the various metal cages to see Torrent holding up a beagle puppy from the scruff of its neck. Its little paws dangled in the air and the dark and curious splodge on its nose told him that it was Benjamin. Just as Dib opened his mouth to shout, he watched the scientist strike the puppy across the head.

"HEY!"

Torrent dropped the puppy in shock, eyes flashing towards the voice. The puppy landed awkwardly and scrabbled to get away. Torrent made to go after it but his attempts were only half-hearted now that he was aware of the company he had.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dib walked over, fists clenched, the soda pop rolling across the floor. He could feel the heat rise into his cheeks.

Torrent looked like he was about to say something when he saw the deranged shine in Dib's eyes, and the fire about to erupt. He grabbed a bag and left in a clap of boots, taking the door on the left that led into the main storeroom.

Just as Dib got there, swinging the door wide to intercept him, the far door that opened into the cold warehouse thudded shut against its frame.

"Benjamin?" He turned, hand cupping his side. He looked under the table and in and around the other cages. Birds jostled about restlessly in their tiny prisons. The albino rats watched from their glass boxes, noses sniffing his scent. "Here, Ben. Good dog. It's just me."

He heard a snivelling whine. Benjamin lay low to the floor in a dark corner behind a towering pile of wooden crates. Even as Dib cooed to him, reaching out and bending down, the puppy backed away, watching from dark and frightened eyes.

The puppies had no names, only numbers. The same went for all Geneva specimens. Names only encouraged an attachment to animals that were things - products that helped steer the course of science in the fields of medicine and disease. But when he had accidently wandered down here, the puppy with the splodge on its nose came to him first, whimpering for attention behind the metal bars. Against his better judgement he had knelt close to the bars, fingers reaching in to try and scratch behind its floppy ears.

"Ben? I'm not going to hurt you..."

It slunk deeper into the space behind the crates, nose to the floor, shaking.

He paused, and when he swallowed he felt the lump in his throat.

The immortal soldier, effaced of strength and resilience, all his powers spiralling to dust, had suddenly become a broken and shivering animal no different to this puppy.

He backed away, hand to his throat, the sadness rising suddenly like cold water.

As he retreated he kicked aside a barrel of slop that sort of smelt like dog food.

The frantic squawking of the song birds and the snuffle of an old dog nearby only tightened the room as the walls pressed closer. He fell beside a cage, his eyes strayed to the shiny bars, and just for a moment he was inside it, imprisoned on all sides, doomed to see the world through burnished metal rods.

A warm and wet tongue began licking the fingers that insensibly clutched at his kneecaps. His vision cleared, and Benjamin was looking up at him.

He lifted a shaky hand and the puppy lifted its soft little head as he stroked him.

_How can you be so forgiving? When the world has shown you nothing but cruelty?_

The dog whimpered, sensing his pain, wanting to help. Tentatively, its little tail started to wag again.

The tears came, cascading freely down his cheeks as something burned in his chest.

He brought his arms around the puppy and sobbed into its fur.

-x-

_"I like mud! I have lots of new friends! Dib made sure I was comfy!"_

He had him...!

That_ Dib_ was holding him captive!

The ticking highlighted each tormenting second as the cramps dumped fire in his frozen sockets and muscles. Each ache of hunger made his spooch clench and boil under the stresses of its own acid. Hours more he waited for someone to end this agony as he listened to the rhythmic music of heart and clock, eyes flickering feverishly to the black screen, waiting. He was allowed no darkness to relieve his eyes of the stabbing illumination, and no place to lie down to rest.

Something tore in his chest as he laboured and heaved, the bands and restraints creaking but not giving until he slumped back, exhausted. He struggled to get his breath back and his limbs and back ached with a hurt he was unfamiliar with. Every laceration, every bruise and blemish the PAK soon tidied away, but the terrible ache inside him stubbornly remained until that of itself was a relentless torture.

He was never alone for very long. They would trample in, these tall and clumsy beings with some implement in-hand. They would take note of his pronounced veins, the shine of his skin, and then murmur amongst themselves. He would try to listen for any mention of Gir, the state and location of the Voot Runner or his base, and whenever he heard Dib's name he would battle against the restraints until there were dots flashing in his eyes.

The blinding intensity of the overhead lights made shadows and stars appear in shifting mosaics, sometimes forcing him to squint at his attackers as their bulky forms swayed to and fro, their voices a caustic dirge that filled the spaces of his mind. He would try to lock on to as many of them as he could, but he was often compelled to shift his attention from one to the other as they moved and separated and darted around him in lumbering steps, their fingers and intentions straying too close, and they would clasp and touch and prod him with uncaring roughness.

He was a stick of dynamite unable to erupt.

There was a lot of drilling and banging next door. It came intermittently or violently, sometimes oscillating through the wall at irregular intervals, which broke the painful medium of the tick tocking and blip bleeping. They could simply be expanding, but he had a feeling they were building something with him in mind.

As he flinched from their touches, his neuron pathways were hard at work, circuits firing along connections as he fought to reopen sealed PAK ports. The feeling of being_ plugged_ brought on sudden, impending claustrophobia, he couldn't breathe, he was locked in a corner where he could only sink, and panic was a hand squeezing on his throat.

He had given his oath; hand on his chest when he had stood in that meticulous and shiny row of established Elites. They had passed every preliminary; the physical evaluations, simulation after simulation, missions and do-or-die operations, psyche assessments, stress assessments... he had passed most of them just shy of one percentage from failing.

He had been trained for certain and general eventualities, most of which had intended him to be in some sort of control before he could be disarmed and neutralized. He might have hesitated with his self-destruct activation switch, but that was before.

When the 'session men' entered his chamber, he was struck simultaneously with the hopeful relief that they might release him from the chair, and the horror that they might not.

The diaphanous gown was soaked through, sticking to his bones like a second skin.

His first complaints were relatively minor hiccups compared to the other agonies that had grown exponentially. He needed to get up and straighten himself out, any part, and lay down so that he might relieve the pressure in his rear, spine, shoulders and hips. Muscles were clenching continuously, claws locking and knotting into painful cramps until the spasm began anew.

He was close to screaming.

His throat flashed when he took a nervous swallow, and his antennae dipped and lifted accordingly to every telltale movement, noise or breath as the tall men clad in their white coats circled him as vultures circled a dying beast. He looked to either of them with hate, but his hard, intense stare usually landed on Dr. Williams. He took a moment to master his voice, once more trying to enclose his emotions, to detach himself and disappear within the walls of his own design. "Do you by chance h-happen to have a pillow or cushion? This horrible chair is really st-starting to annoy me!"

He looked expectantly at their blank and stone-like faces, their eyes tiny, impassive holes. Sometimes they would peer back at him with looks that were always exclusively apathetic.

The men were easier to size up when they were without their face masks and hulking suits that supersized their forms. Torrent was not among them this time; he usually disappeared for hours at a time, and hurried right back whenever Williams would call upon him.

"Weight. 17 lbs. Temperature, 39 degrees Celsius." Williams scribbled something onto his electronic pad that he habitually left on the nearby table. "His cephalic veins are more pronounced today." He reached over, Zim stiffening, throat hoarse with grunts and growls as the flesh along his arm was pinched between forefinger and thumb. When the doctor released the pressure, the skin remained pinched.

"It's starting to stink." Commented Edward, his hazel eyes only ever briefly settling on Zim's.

He unnerved many of the scientists who were not used to creatures or animals possessing sophisticated levels of intelligence and self-awareness. Even though he was strapped down, some didn't like getting too close, while others seemed to personally enjoy his imprisonment. Torrent and Williams liked to close in around him, he would feel their breath flowing and exhaling against the skin of his neck as their fingers went to knead his throat or shoulder or hand as if the _feel_ of him and his bony contours was too compelling for them to resist. These_ touches_ he despised, and his fear swelled, crushing his lungs and crowding his senses. Despite the camera always surveying him, Torrent seemed ignorant to the fact and would pinch and dig his fingers into various parts of him without prelude, smiling whenever he enticed A01 to hiss or buck or squeal.

"Stop circling me!" The pain in his wrists flared as much as through his arms as he twisted and struggled, prompting more spasms in his shoulders and legs. Old blood painted the armrest of the steel beneath in layers. "You're all cowards! C-Cowards and vultures and...!"

The nylon restraint had been re-fitted until it was squeezing on his sternum, constricting his breathing and his shoulders to the platform's cold and concrete-soft backrest. He had pushed and shoved himself breathless against the strap until the effort started to produce head-splitting dizziness, back pain and rapid ECG pings that refused to ease long after he had stopped to recover. Another nylon strap was secured and then tightened around his skull just above his eyes, but he had managed to loosen it so that he could turn his head beneath it.

His tenacity and resilience had quickly become renowned throughout Geneva, and was often remarked upon among his other less than savoury traits. They commented on his 'smallness,' of 'how ugly his eyes were,' and how 'buglike' he was. Now and then he would hear comments on his volatile tenacity, and how amusing it was that he kept futilely struggling.

"Avoid eye contact with it," Zim's antennae picked up on Williams's voice as he whispered to his colleagues. "Just focus on my instructions and you'll do fine."

"I am not a subject! You sh-should be the ones strapped to this chair, not me!" His voice was a low squeaking tremble.

"Where are you from, A01?" Williams's questions seemed only cursory, as if the totality of Zim's answer didn't really matter.

"Earth! You smmok hole of a dink beast!"

"Excuse me?"

"Can it be gagged, like before? Please?" Asked Rick. "What if it can mess with your head? I think we should cover its eyes."

"Dib said nothing about telepathy."

"He can't know everything!"

"I do have telepathy!" Zim roared, causing all of them except the doctor to jump back. "I can make your heads explode with a single thought! Who wants to go first?"

"Gentlemen, please! A01 is just trying to frighten you!" Williams turned to them but Rick was already running for the exit, leaving him with Edward. "If anyone leaves this room without my consent, you won't have a job to go back to!" His voice must have snagged on Rick's momentum because he paused by the door. After a second of deliberation he hit the button, the door sliding aside. He did not come back.

Edward visibly paled and was coasting cautious glances towards their growling subject.

Williams stooped towards the subject's twig-green thigh and started to cut away the gauze.

Zim recoiled, wrists and ankles hitting the restraints, teeth emerging from split and cracked lips, antennae shooting upright. "D-Don't touch me!"

The cardiologist pulled away the gauze, some of which was sticky and wet, but the cavity beneath had closed over, the deeper tissue damage having coagulated with new tissue, while the topmost layer was still soft and malleable when touched with a gloved finger.

"I would really like to see how the muscles work when A01 moves on a treadmill," Williams was saying to Edward, "this regenerative testing Carlson has fast-tracked pegs back our own research." Edward hissed, looking from him to the overhead observation screen, but the doctor didn't seem to care. "While we wait for our 'famous saviour' to join us, we may as well use this time wisely. Edward, prepare the platform to recline by, say, five inches, and spread out the leg platforms while you're at it."

"I'll kill you!" The soldier warned, his orbs now blood-red twinkling gems between narrowing eyelids. "Just you wait! Blowing you up is too quick! I think I'll tie you up! And then I'll throw you into The Pit of Weasels!"

Edward jealously guarded the table with all the surgical equipment in case the creature should somehow fly out of its restraints and grab something from it.

Using his hands, Williams carefully felt along Zim's musculoskeletal structure such as his wrists, neck, ankles and chest. He manipulated and prodded the bone of his wrists more frequently, feeling for signs of stiffness, heat or inflammation. His expression lifted slightly in mild interest, but he could have easily looked that way had he been reading a magazine about finance.

"Such remarkable strength and fortitude for something so small..." Was his comment.

Zim's antennae literally jerked as high as they could go. "I'll show you small!" He snarled.

Touch nauseated him. Touch had him pull away as if their contact hurt.

The platform suddenly dropped him back by a few inches, and the cramps surged to the fore, throwing him into a helpless fit as his sockets and joints and muscles screamed and burned.

Dr. Williams changed his thin, translucent surgical gloves for new ones, and placed one of those surgical white face masks over his mouth.

"All right, A01," came Dr. Williams from what seemed like very far away, "you seem remarkably intelligent and cohesive. If you don't want this to hurt, I suggest you just relax. If you tense up, it will take longer for me to make a diagnosis."

"A... d-diagnosis? For what, fool?"

Edward was opening a laptop that was resting on a swivelling platform of its own. "Who authorized this?" He asked the doctor.

"I did." He remarked a little coldly. "I have jurisdiction over disease control and possible contamination risks as we build a better picture of the subject. Ideally we wouldn't be ramming sessions in-between sessions like this, but I need as much information as I can before the sergeant rushes his agenda forwards."

The doctor turned away to take something from the counter worktop. Zim tried to peer at what he was doing as his mind started to separate and ooze, fleeting hope telling him that the human monster was finishing up, when he turned back round with a long, white stethoscope dangling from gloved hands. Zim pulled back, lips upending into a frightened snarl. On the spur of the moment, with so very few tricks left, he hacked out a series of long, dry coughs.

Williams drew back at once.

"I h-have the cox!" It was hard to maintain the act when terror and shame and hurt were all there was. He fell behind _rage,_ and the threat of tears was barred and locked and burnt away. "It's gonna spread! To you! And YOU! You'll burn up, your hands will pop off! You'll... you'll melt at the knees and turn into puddles or something!"

Edward was already rising from the laptop to back away.

The look Williams gave Zim made him want to tunnel away underground, anything to hide away, anything to _disappear._

"Edward. Lower the table another four inches. I want him horizontal."

"No!" Zim's teeth clapped forwards, terror seizing him.

The platform leaned backwards, snaring him as a cradle snared an infant. Gloved hands came to rest on his bony hips, pressing and digging into the bone there before the hands, heavy and unbearably rough began to massage his tiny abdomen to palpate his lower intestines beneath the spooch. Cold gloved fingers pressed and pushed, squeezing on them: making them gurgle.

_Please!_

_Please... stop!_

Knobbly fingers and callused thumbs nudged and pushed on his diaphragm and the rigidity of his ribcage. One hand on either side started at the back of his ribs and worked their way to his sternum, collarbone and throat. The scream flew up and out, a simultaneous burst of rage and inner pain.

He was slowly but surely trickling down cracks between the internal walls.

"Slight abnormality in the abdominal region," Commented the doctor, "which could be a sign of hunger and dehydration. His temperature has risen by 2 degrees. The glands in his throat have also enlarged."

"So what?" Edward pressed stubbornly.

Williams turned briefly to the all-watching camera. "I think the regenerative testing should be withheld until we get fluids into A01."

They heard hoarse laughter booming from the intercom. When the braying was finally over, the drilling next door recommenced for another thirty seconds or so.

"Aren't you little tadpoles cute?" Came the sergeant's husky voice. From the way he spoke, they suspected he was speaking around a cocktail stick. "You build your enterprise and success on results, don't you? Then our goal is the same. We are to go ahead with the session. A01's regenerative testing has already been delayed for nearly nineteen hours now. I cannot wait for that boy any longer."

"Boy?" Edward asked Williams quietly. "The one with that ridiculous scythe of hair?"

But the doctor was already reaching for a scalpel from a nearby tray, his other hand raising the platform so that Zim was forced back into a sitting position. Holding the scalpel delicately between thumb and forefinger, Williams bent towards the subject's strong and undiscerning claws and cut into the subject's middle knuckle joint without warning. Zim muffled a yelp, shoulders wrestling futilely against the restraints. The electrodes strung to his forehead and chest flashed from side to side. Fast flowing green - as pale as pear juice beneath the fluorescent lights - spilled from the paper thin cut and trickled, drop by drop, into the provided glass beaker below.

"Is that your b-best p-plan?" Zim tried to twist away, the nylon chest-strap nicking into his ribs and creating darker bruising across his sternum beneath the gown, "...Making s-stupid little cuts?"

Williams stood back, the glistening scalpel bejewelled with drops of green. In the other hand he held a stopwatch as it ticked down the seconds. The pulses from the ECG stroked faster and faster, vivid eyes of the subject focused murderously on the doctor as claws clenched and trembled on the armrests.

After thirty seconds the cut stopped bleeding which then began to darken and clog over with a scab. After another thirty seconds Williams could brush away the scab, revealing unblemished and new skin. Even the faintest path of a scar could not be seen as the doctor inspected the site with the lens of a magnifying glass.

Williams diligently turned to the camera, his eyes sometimes looking to the scientists watching from the observation screen. "Notice that the cut increases the subject's heart rate. Not just from registered pain, but from an induced reaction similar to our adrenaline. We do not know if this activates the capability to heal, or is a symptom of it by whatever generates these fast and regenerative capabilities. We will scan its nervous system and blood to see what reactions are taking place inside its chemical composition while it heals."

Another nick was made in roughly the same place, and Zim's eyes burned even brighter.

Williams brought over a circular machine that had a winding, twirling mechanical arm sticking out of a retractable arm. Parts of it extended, and a hypo thudded into the back of Zim's left shoulder blade. He screeched, jaws clenching, toes curling, antennae arching.

The ear-splitting and pain-filled shriek had Edward step away.

"God's sake! I need someone a little more competent in here!" Williams made another cut, this time going deeper, the scalpel's tip cutting into tendon and a network of nerves.

A01's piercing shriek had Edward slap gloved hands over his ears.

"Stop it!" Phlegm trailed down Zim's ragged and cracked lips. "STOP IT!"

"Breathing and heart rate has increased again." Williams stood by the monitoring machine, looking at the stopwatch and taking notes as a vial was dispensed from the sampler machine with an output sheet of the results.

"Well?" Came the grunting demand of the sergeant through the intercom speaker that had Zim concurrently flinch and show his teeth, the pink of his pupils darting and feverishly flashing around.

Williams lifted the sheet to his face, having to pause and resettle his ancient and crooked looking glasses on his crooked and ancient nose. "There are high levels of hyaluronan in A01's system and higher levels of cortisol and epinephrine. The quantity and production of hyaluronan has increased at a phenomenal rate, perhaps the efficiency has been directed by electrical signals from the brain to this attached PAK...? Or maybe it's the other way around...?"

The high security door opened and Torrent came in, fussing with his latex gloves.

"What took you?" Williams snapped at the late assistant.

Zim's eyes darted between the superior and inferior of the two as the younger man gesticulated at the older. "I was in the crapper!"

"We're recording, you idiot!"

He finally snapped on his gloves, and flickered a gaze Zim's way. Zim was staring back, but the subject's flippant and mocking smile was gone. The creature's drool-shiny and mottled, bitten lips were trembling, and there was something else flickering in the cosmic depth of its eyes: something animalistic, something unhinged.

Torrent looked from the cardiologist to the tense and staring little creature before approaching the surgical table.

The doctor put the scalpel down in exchange for another with a slighter longer blade. "I will make another incision in the gracilis muscle to see if the site heals as quickly as the first." He lifted an edge of the subject's gown to reveal a sweaty and trembling leg. Alongside the perceptible shaft of bone pressing through the skin was a bulging cord of sweaty muscle. Dipping the point of the scalpel on the flexing tendon, Williams pressed. The cold, steel point didn't meet much resistance and it slipped smoothly through straining tissue, causing instant and rapid bleeding that trailed down the leg to the ankle in fast-flowing emerald ribbons.

Zim's pulse kicked wildly. Guttural choking noises came from the subject's throat as he leaned and pulled despondently against the restraints.

Blood trickled into the glass beaker with faster-dripping plips and plops. A01 chomped on air, trying to free his head from the strap, claws similarly clenching into the steel of the armrests.

They were beginning to notice a reoccurring trend.

The careful and precise incisions were taking longer to heal and his heart rate was taking longer to slow down.

Dark greens saturated the cloth of gown as the blade found its mark, cutting into specific muscles with the ease of a knife sinking into a steak. Each incision took twenty seconds longer to close, and had begun to protrude with inflammation when the tissue wouldn't heal correctly, with thin scar lines beginning to appear.

"Guess there is a limit to its regeneration ability." Torrent frostily remarked.

"That could mean any number of things." Williams curtly replied. "I think the subject could go on healing. But healing requires energy, nutrients. You can't get something from nothing. It is possible we are draining this creature's natural energy and resources."

Torrent was only too glad. "Thank God. For a minute there I thought we had a supreme being on our hands. Fucking regeneration. Fucking monster."

"I wonder if A01's healing ability is an active form of defence... In the interest of disease and the nature of its bacteria, we really need a biopsy right away." He shook his head, smiling dreamily. "We won't know for certain until further testing, but its DNA could apply to modern medicine and human beings! Could you imagine the breakthroughs? The possibilities if we were to eliminate injury, and to heal quickly from any disease? A01's genetic makeup is worth billions! Bruises, broken bones, they would be a thing of the past!"

Zim's mouth hung open, his eyes dilating.

"Sounds too good to be true."

"Nothing ever satisfies you, Torrent." Williams placed the dirty scalpel on a separate tray for later sanitation. "I assume the same ability of healing applies to its internal organs. It would make biopsies of the brain and heart easier, for example, but going in deeper may cause an infection."

Torrent laughed. "Have fun trying to cut it up during the vivisection then!"

Ice peeled up Zim's spine and his heart threatened to pound out of his ribcage as he listened to them casually talk about his demise.

"The... The Armada aren't c-coming!" He finally spluttered, looking between them. "That was what you monsters wanted, right? Does that mean I can g-go now?"

Williams's attention was distracted by the volatile and escalating notes of the ECG and took little notice of his pleading.

"Let me go! I'll give you monsters a ten second head start before I blow up this miserable horrible earth ball! I'll... I'll..." The subject's voice turned to a spluttering, desperate gurgle as he started to heave, and dribble and spooch acid trickled out of his mouth in drooling strings. More sweat tricked profusely down his throat and chest, his eyes hollowing as his vision lingered down a tunnel that existed somewhere between the two men. His breath stuttered out of a narrowing throat.

"Proceed!" Came the sharp, predatory voice from the intercom. "Take a sample of its skin. About six inches oughta do. From the arm, the leg, or the..." There was a shuffle of what sounded like pages being flicked "...the deltoid and pectoralis major muscles. Just get on with it."

Zim felt the numbing cold creep into his midsection and chest as panic spilled its fever into his veins, paralyzing him. They moved like caricatures, his vision picked them up, his antennae noted their presence and the warmth and sweat of their bodies, but his presence was fading, moving away, turning inwards. Torrent's large hand clapped onto his diminutive shoulder and he was brought back out, into a cold room with surgical trays and observation windows and white featureless walls where only pain existed.

"Gir... please... is G-Gir okay...?"

Williams paused, moving away a moment as he took his time presiding over the tools and sterile implements.

Zim clenched on the armrests, and tried to steady his core.

_They cannot touch me. _

_They cannot break me._

His attention was drawn like a magnet to the sharp gleaming knife Williams held perched in his bony gloved fingers. There was no time to prepare himself. The man turned, not looking at him, not stopping to warn him that it was going to hurt. Callused, hard fingers through the thin rubber of the glove roughly held the top of his forearm, and Torrent bathed the area they meant to attack with some brown and smelling solution that made his eyes sting.

"No, no, no..." His words were cyclical in an unconscious, rambling way. "No, no... this is n-nothing! I am Zim... Invader Zim... Elite..."

Williams placed the blade on the narrow width of his trembling arm, fingers pinching there to find a place against the bone. He took another look at the knife and bent away to pick up a blade of differing length and depth, placing the other one by a growing assembly of dirtied ones.

"No, no! NO!" He rattled it in rapid sips, gasps and gurgled half-pleas. "Keep away! Keep away!"

Williams hesitated, the new knife clenched in rubbery latex fingers. Glassy and glittery magenta pleadingly looked up at him, rivers of sweat rolling down the creature's throat and exposed arms, the wet and soppy gown having slipped down his shoulders to his shiny collarbone and elbows.

For a moment Zim was certain he had convinced the squinty eyed man, and that he had got through to him, that Williams would step back and reconsider... then: "Torrent, is there a blindfold we can use? Put it over A01's eyes. It might help ease its panic."

"What?" The straps wouldn't give, he raged and battered them senseless, he was barred, he was sinking...

_They cannot touch me!_

_They cannot break me!_

The pause in the testing_ the stress_ didn't last. Torrent returned with a black length of material, and he was fussing with it.

Zim looked to the observation window, trying to see the figure of the professor through the dark of the glass.

_Please!_

The breadth of the scalpel fetched along his arm, he wasn't prepared, and the pain was a vice, stealing rapidly up and through his body. The blade caught on the inner seams of muscle for leverage as one would begin to peel the skin of an apple.

For a moment the subject's subdued silence was eerie as A01 fought to breathe, body erratically shaking, sweat soaking every fibre of his gown.

His eyes were glassy reflective orbs that resonated with none of the vividness of before, and the iron that had once reflected the creature's core couldn't be seen.

Williams applied pressure and searing pain followed, his arm may as well have gone up in flames as skin came away, flesh tearing as the cold tip slipped and punctured through, cutting away sinew and fibres of muscle membrane.

He found that place again, that parting in the middle, and something was torn from his arm, but he wasn't aware of it, or why his arm felt so wet and cold and hot at the same time.

The blindfold came towards him, Torrent opening it out like a handkerchief.

-x-

What they were saying was only half absorbed as if everything was happening in some distant place glimpsed through fog. He moved as quickly as he could into the main observatory to see Dr. Williams, Edward and Torrent overlooking a thin, flimsy thing that_ almost_ looked like Zim, and when the doctor turned to the observatory holding something, Dib couldn't close his eyes in time. A thin, ropey and bloodied sheet of flesh and muscle membrane hung from his bloodied fingertips.

Zim was no longer screaming. As he stared, nose almost pressing flat to the glass, he saw something almost white and not green in that steel cradle, eyes blank, watery muted coatings of stone.

"Ah, thank you, Williams. See, you are good for something." Carlson said as the doctor dropped the tapered and almost diaphanous leaf of flesh into a sterilized container that Torrent had just provided.

"How... how l-long has he been sitting like that for?" Dib struggled to adjust to the scene not far below them, as a shivery invader looked wildly and blankly at the men as a part of him was contained in a jar. Then a blindfold was lowered and tied over those glassy and frightened eyes. "What... what are you _doing _to him?"

"We postponed the regenerative trials for you while you rested, but we couldn't wait any longer." The sergeant, not his father, was the first to approach him, and he cupped cold withered fingers over his shoulder. "You haven't missed much, just a modest palpation on its body and a few cuts to see how quickly that little beastie heals."

"What do you mean? It's still evening, isn't it?"

Carlson gave a hearty chuckle. "No, no son. It's Wednesday morning!"

"He's... he's been sitting in that chair, all this time?"

"We can't have the enemy all comfortable now, can we?" The pat on his shoulder was a little less gentle.

The ventilation breathed coldly down the back of his neck as he stared at the piece of bloodied flesh in the container.

One or two observing scientists passed Dib strange and curious looks from their consoles, whereas his father stood stooped over a computer console, not looking into the chamber. He was peering down at the flashing and pulsing lights of the console, gloved hands spread out on it as if the strength in his legs wouldn't support his weight.

Dib ran a hand up his arm, eyes skirting back to the thin and green-speckled soldier.

Was the Irken smart enough to realize that they were merely assessing him and weighing him up in the same way he was weighing them up? They were getting everything they needed as Zim progressed through one torture after another: the basic math of his blood while it was still pure, the tempo of his organs before they began to die, how normal his behaviour before the stress deteriorated his body.

A creature that had perfectly melded into tech and power had become a startled thing straining to look at his attackers. The glistening reds of reflective nebulas that flashed with encompassing and clashing emotions were now covered away by a length of dark cloth.

They weren't invested in the Irken's atypical, neurotic behaviour and intelligence or where he had come from, they were only interested in profiting from his biology and inbuilt tech. Zim's body was that golden egg. They'd play around with him for awhile, and try to take that gift from him piece by piece, and when there wasn't enough, when the enigma of Zim was still an enigma, they'd rip him apart.

He rubbed at his sore and achy eyes.

_I told you. I warned you things would be this way._

_You stayed anyway. What changed? What made you finally come for me?_

"Why are they covering his eyes?"

"It's proven to reduce stress in animals." Carlson offered him a cocktail stick fresh out of the packet, of which he shook his head at. It wasn't long before the sergeant then raided the nearby cabinet and produced an ebony glass tumbler for each of them, upending a bottle of thirty year old scotch and pouring out ample measures before offering the glass to Dib who numbly took it.

"What about getting information from him?" Dib asked softly.

He hadn't expected things to go this way, hadn't expected it to be drawn out with _fine-tuned_ exactness from impartial beings who passed themselves off as scientists - _as humans_. He supposed his childhood fantasies of the scientists doing a vivisection right there and then without any of the prolonged torment in-between had been purely childish. He couldn't watch his nemesis endure the brutality of this torment, hour after hour. They wouldn't even talk _to _him, acknowledge his distress, or even look at him anymore than one would look at bacteria in a Petri-dish.

Instead of questions, of the stars, what he had seen, what he had done, they jumped ahead with the distressing formalities of cutting and dicing into him. What about the incoming Irken threat, of a potential army arriving on Earth's doorstep? Instead they were toiling around with statistics and data. Zim's healing ability was pretty amazing, but he had hoped that the uniqueness of his biology would be a lesser concern.

Dib slowly leaned away from the screen, eyelids sliding down. _He'd do the same to me, given the chance._ _Lock me in some room down in his base where no one would find me, so he would be free to dice me up any way he liked._

Zim didn't resemble that towering wall any more. He endured the cutting with squeals, but he was looking increasingly desperate, head swivelling under the strap, eyes blinded as he still miserably tried to track them with his antennae and other senses.

He could hear his enemy's quiet sobs through the insulation of the glass, as Benjamin had whimpered and cried in the corner behind the crates.

The professor was tapping on one of the little computers, he was rewinding the recoding to moments before, and Dib could clearly hear Dr. Williams say: _"His genetic makeup is worth billions! Bruises, broken bones, they would be a thing of the past!"_

His eyelids lifted, recognizing the cold certainty in those words.

His father kept rewinding the recording, and when he hit PLAY he heard Zim's tinny and shrill voice:_ "The... the Armada aren't c-coming!"_

When Dib staggered, the whiskey spilled from the glass before he could catch it in time. Carlson was watching from those wolfish eyes.

He took two steps and grabbed his father's arm. _Please, stop playing it!_

The professor slowly turned to look at him, the ridges of his brows above the goggles forming into a hard and knotted line.

Zim weakly squawked as he was bodily swung upwards, the chair constricting him in its rotating turns. An MRI machine was descending from the ceiling. It scanned their squealing subject, and Williams was shortly looking at the results. Dib knew what the doctor was looking at: it was the traces of energy leaving the mechanical device on its back as it travelled through networks of nerves and capillaries all over his body: the PAK being the source and supplier of this power, this regeneration they meant to take as if it was rightfully theirs.

"Delicately cutting into A01's skin and acquiring a sample is all so very nice. Like having afternoon tea with the in-laws." Came Carlson's sarcasm as he hit the intercom, "How about you 'scientists' earn your keep for once and be a little more effective this time? Give its healing powers a real challenge!"

Williams lowered the sheet of results, turning towards the observation screen. "What do you suggest?"

"Break one of its bones. I don't care which. Maybe removing a limb entirely will encourage the subject to grow a new one, who knows?"

The intercom crackled as it was suddenly turned off. The professor had his hand over the broadcast button as he stared sharply at Carlson. His goggles could not hide the pallor in his cheeks, or the frown cutting down the middle of his forehead.

Dib could see him trembling.

The sergeant shrugged and paused to sip at his scotch. He enjoyed taking his time with it.

"No." Said the professor at last. "We have acquired enough from Zim for today. He cannot endure anymore."

"Why do you insist on calling this little critter 'Zim?' You keep doing it, like you and that thing in there are in cahoots with one another." He sat on the edge of a desk, cradling the glass in his hand.

The professor didn't move, flinch or look away. Dib watched them, feeling the tension fill the room. The computer screens hummed in the near-dark of the observatory, painting their faces in eerie white.

When the professor wouldn't answer, the sergeant stood up and walked to the doorway, signalling brusquely at Membrane with a cutting gesture. The head scientist stiffened and then he joined the man at the doorway.

The soft whisper of the sergeant had the same casual air, and carried the same grating bark. "It would be a mighty fine shame if I were to declare you an enemy of the States. Your career will be ruined. And you will ruin your son's career, and his future. Do you want to hurt him? The one who sacrificed everything for this? He saved the world! And you hinder him every step of the way!"

The professor slumped as if he had been clubbed from behind.

"This place?" Carlson continued with a sharp gesture, "You're right. It doesn't matter. It's just a building made of bricks, and I need you fools to play doctor for as long as that thing remains alive. But_ you_ are starting to worry me. You could be an accomplice for another company, or be in some kind of loony confederacy with A01. Delaying the process of learning from the enemy is a deliberate criminal act! I am playing by your rules, professor. For now. Hell, I could go into that chamber right now and take its PAK clean off for ten minutes or twenty." And he went back to slurping nosily from his glass of whiskey. "Your call."

In the chamber, Williams, Edward and Torrent were looking expectantly at the observatory window for their next orders.

For seconds that felt like long minutes that impossibly stretched, the professor stood as if he had been turned to stone.

Dib watched Carlson stroll back into the observatory to place his empty glass on the desk before he stretched and yawned.

Prof. Membrane was much slower joining them, and when he woodenly reached for the intercom button and pressed, a responding crackle filled the subject's chamber. "Dr. Williams. Do you... have the a-appropriate equipment?" A bead of sweat ran down the side of his goggles and dripped into the wide brim of his collar.

"I do, professor." Came the tinny reply.

"The... urm... breathing ventilator?"

"That too, professor."

"G-Good." He drew back, shrinking from the intercom button as if it was seconds away from exploding. Dib looked between them, his mouth opened, and when he was about to say, _it's enough, nothing more is necessary, it's..._

"This whiskey ain't so bad." Carlson said, lifting the bottle the professor had earlier bribed him with.

In the chamber the platform clunked and whined as it lowered, presenting Zim horizontally at the appropriate height for the procedure. Slabs of chair disappeared into something of a table, and the Irken hoarsely screamed as pressure and pain was transferred from weakened muscles to other weakened and cramping muscles. "You wanna kn-know how many armed w-weasels I have?" His nasally voice was gurgling, words muttered frantically so much so that it became harder to understand his babble. "One! He's a prototype! He likes those jaws I gave him! The plasma bomb? It doesn't work! I need to make some adjustments to the cell ignition! You can have it! It's under the s-sofa somewhere! The moose with the missile launchers! It was me!"

The door opened, and Zim tipped his antennae just enough so that he could detect the professor walking in.

Williams was changing gloves and handing out a fresh pair to Torrent and the professor as they slipped on surgical masks and aprons.

Zim's less-than-convincing smile beneath the blindfold was breaking at the edges. "Please! I can give you technology! It's really no trouble!"

The professor was overlooking the yet untouched surgical tools on the trolley, all of which were sterilized and polished until they shone. He picked out a small shaft of metal and approached Zim's side. "I need you to open your mouth and bite down on this. This procedure won't take long. I promise you."

Glassy crimson tried to peer through the dark material of the blindfold. He spoke as if something was squeezing his chest. "Wh-what's h-happening?"

The professor paused a moment, looking at the sheets of green running down the Irken's left arm where a portion of skin had been removed. The parcel of skin had been stored in a sealed vial for study. A few more empty containers were lined up beside it.

Williams was looking at 'the sample' in the same way he had, when, as a young scientist, he had observed the gold and pink butterfly in a glass jar. It had been so beautiful – the way its wings had glimmered as if they had contained starlight. He also remembered how that light had faded, turning dark and brown as it died.

When he gently touched Zim's good arm below the shoulder, feeling him convulsively recoil, he could feel how cold he was through the latex of his glove. "I must perform a fracture, little one. I will make it as painless as I can."

His rapid sips of breath took an even shallower rhythm. "P-please... get me out of h-here..."

"Open." When the professor eased the metal cylinder across his mouth, waiting for teeth to clamp over it, he turned back to the implements. He took great pains to avoid looking towards the camera. "I will perform a transverse fracture on the subject's left humerus, a break that will go straight through the bone. The break will be clean, ensuring minimal trauma and bleeding. Torrent, if you can please add restraints to A01? Doctor, keep an eye on his vitals."

More nylon straps were applied and cranked unnecessarily tight over Zim's midsection, knees and throat.

The steel platform's lower shelf lifted, extending into a wider rectangular section. The professor unclipped the restraint from Zim's left wrist and planted his arm on the new extension, palm up. Metal clamps pinged from beneath and snapped down on the Irken's shoulder blade, wrist and elbow, insuring that his arm was completely fixed in place and could not be moved.

Even when he could scarcely budge, teeth and tongue muffled by the metal gag, chest barely having the room to expand, he strained exhaustingly, eyes falling shut behind the blindfold. "Corkscrews and bolts!" A01 muffled around the shaft across his mouth, "Mary had a little lamb! Five thousand fibres for nuclear cells... Twenty batteries, all told!"

Prof. Membrane lifted the Exoden bone breaker implement and released a latch that clamped its jaws on one end of the bone while applying metric tons of pressure with its paring arm onto a specific place until it snapped. The clamp had a crank that easily increased the pressure.

Williams was frowning. "You're not going to saw into the humerus?"

"Too much trauma. A perfectly controlled internal break is more efficient and less invasive! As a fellow professional I am sure you would agree. And since he is not allowed pain relief... and with the chance of infection..."

"No, no professor." Williams retort was gentle, and regretful. "As much as I agree with our professionalism, Carlson has made it very clear that we use the electric bone saw."

"Williams?"

"We must not lose sight of our objective. How can we not realize the full extent of its incredible healing if we do not push the limits of A01's biology? We must gauge the efforts, energies and time it takes for muscular rejuvenation, tissue and bone to heal if we are to learn anything conclusive. Once we have a better understanding, we can take biopsies of its internals safely. Think of what we can discover!"

The professor bent forwards as he leaned on the trolley, but the pair of them didn't wait for him to make up his mind as Torrent started unscrewing and removing the clamp.

"Let me handle it." Williams said. "I've done it thousands of times on lab animals his size."

"No. It's something I must do." His gloved fingers drew towards the electric buzz saw's blue handle and numbly clasped its chassis.

He looked down at the stick-thin arm and the sagging sleeve that had been pulled right up to his collarbone, with Williams dabbing the site with brown alcoholic solution that left a pungent reek.

He tried not to look at Zim, only on the place he meant to cut into.

"Preparing for the incision..." His goggles drew to the site he meant to penetrate, aware that everyone was watching; that the recoding would go into the archives for all time. Turning away would ensure his son's ruination, Zim's end and Carlson's effortless triumph over all three of them.

He squeezed on the saw's internal button and the blade began to loudly buzz.

"T-thirty measures for that one! Two hundred and forty volts up the crank!" Came Zim's panicked muffles through the gag.

"I'm so sorry, little one." The spinning blade touched down, slicing through flesh and muscle, green splattering their aprons and masks. Zim choked against the gag, his scream a strangled pig-like grunt. The pained whimpering and guttural chokes and strangled shrieks had Dib stand away from the terminal, hands over his ears. In less than a second there was a crunch as the saw hit bone. The Irken strained out a long, harrowing scream, teeth spasmodically clenching against the gag, antennae changing direction and tension in seconds.

The teeth of the saw cut through, chiselling with rapid speeds through the bone's central point. Blood sluiced and spluttered off the metal ledge, dribbling and flowing into the plastic bucket beneath.

Static was beginning to fall over Zim's eyes, the dark veil of the blindfold now a star-filled purple. He fought to keep from feeling the pain, fought to keep distant from the fact that his arm was being severed. The PAK was burning into and through his spine, the last reserves of its analgesics not doing anything. It was unable to combat the panic soaking through him and unable to control the thuds and thumps felt through his chest wall as his heart started to fibrillate.

Tingly, cold numbness was rushing through, his legs were already cold with it as it went to his chest and head as the world tumbled around him, the buzzing of the bone-saw his eternal company and escort.

An overwhelming urge to sleep replaced the adrenaline, his consciousness leaving him faster than he could chase it.

They were murmuring above him, but they sounded far, far away. His gurgles and pain-fuelled croaks began to weaken but the buzzing wouldn't stop.

His muscles and limbs were helplessly forced under a different kind of control as teeth clacked on the gag, eyes rolling into his skull, limbs dancing within the cradle of their restraints. The world tumbled, the ceiling was a pink sky, and for a moment he was out of the room, he was in the cabin of the Voot, and he was soaring away, escaping the pain.

Moments flashed by, dreamlike and incredibly surreal, and in those glimpses someone was clicking their fingers in front his eyes, of something heavy, bulky and suffocating being pressed over his face. Dimly, he was aware of someone or something hitting his chest and slapping his hand and...

He took a breath, the agonizing pressure in his chest demanded air, and his lungs were filled with pain.

He was vaguely aware that he was lying on the floor as if the platform had just disappeared. He looked up past the masks and the faces and watched as the ceiling opened up. The Massive had arrived, its bulk filling the night sky.

He smiled.

Voices were calling, down his long and weary tunnel. His eyes closed, and the darkness he gladly fell into.

* * *

**Dib07:** Not sure I ever wanna come back to this again, ahhhhhh! *runs away*


End file.
